The Wedding of Steel

The morning of the wedding arrived without fanfare.

The sky was pale, the air too still—like even the wind refused to intrude on a day that didn't belong to love.

The Aurene Hotel of the Virell's had been transformed overnight. Velvet-draped columns lined the inner courtyard, where not only a select circle of the most powerful figures can enter, but everyone.

Uniformed guards, half from the Elion's army, half from the Virell's private security, flanked every perimeter. It's not a celebration, it's a power declaration.

There were no floating petals. No violinists rehearsing melodies of love.

Everything was cold. Calculated. Perfect.

Just as Seraphine Elion had ordered.

The staff wore muted gray and ivory. The florist was forbidden from using roses—she had chosen white orchids instead, long-stemmed and almost surgical in their elegance. She had selected the rings herself, platinum bands with their names engraved.

Every guest wore black formal attire—military or corporate—and none were permitted to speak to the bride or groom unless addressed directly.

The ceremony would begin at exactly ten o'clock.

By nine forty-five, Callum stood beneath the marble arch at the altar, suited in black, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past the crowd. Not a wrinkle on him. Not a tremble. But he looked carved out of stone.

His father stood a few paces behind, speaking in low tones with Hadrian Elion.

The air between the two patriarchs was ironclad, bound by decades of silent understanding and combined ambition. Neither had cracked since the deal was made.

But it was the absence of something that made the morning feel heavier.

There were no mothers in the front row.

No sisters weeping, but Sera's three brothers were there, his groomsmen. Looking at him, warning him.

No childhood friends.

Just shareholders. Generals. Ministers. CEOs. Strategists.

Everyone here knew what this wedding truly was.

A contract.

A union of iron and blood.

---

Upstairs, in the east wing of the estate, Seraphine stood before a gilded mirror, the final pin being tucked into her braid.

Her gown was not soft or flowing—it was sharp and sculpted. Crisp white satin, high collar, long sleeves, a structured waist. No lace. No sparkle.

Her veil was sheer, simple, clipped in place like a tactical detail.

When the maid stepped back, Seraphine raised her eyes to the mirror.

Not to admire.

To assess.

Somehow, she had the look of a bride—not Lior's bride, but still, the glow of some unspoken promise warmed her features.

There was a delicate brightness in her eyes as she smiled, as if the reasons behind that smile were woven from secrets and long-forgotten dreams that she could no longer quite name.

She stepped out into the hallway where two guards flanked her silently. They bowed their heads once, respectfully.

It was time.

As she walked down the corridor leading to the grand staircase, she paused at the top landing.

Below, the crowd was beginning to rise.

The orchestra gave a single soft note of warning.

The doors were wide open, the aisle perfectly lit by soft morning light.

Seraphine looked not down the aisle—but toward the entrance.

The threshold was still open.

Dozens of eyes turned to her. Some with admiration. Some with fear. Some with calculated interest.

But hers lingered at the very back.

As if waiting.

Searching.

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face.

A whisper of breath caught in her throat.

*He's not coming.*

Still… for just a second, she had hoped.

Hoped for a reason to walk away.

Hoped someone might stop her.

But all she saw was stillness.

So she stepped forward.

---

The march to the altar was slow and unwavering, each measured step echoing in the courtyard as if the very stones bore witness to an unspoken fate.

She maintained her gaze forward, not meeting Callum's eyes until she was within arm's reach—a distance heavy with unsaid regrets. He offered no hand, and she never expected it; the spaces between them held the weight of everything left unsaid.

Together, they turned toward the priest, moving with the inevitability of a predetermined ritual. 

Even so, in that quiet, constrained moment, there lingered a faint hope—a tender prayer whispered by their fathers, that their marriage might endure a lifetime, and that along the journey they would not only come to understand one another but also grasp the deeper intention behind their fathers' guidance.

---

"Do you, Callum Virell," the priest began, "take Seraphine Elion to be your lawfully wedded wife—"

He didn't blink.

"I do."

The words rang sharp. Like a verdict.

"And do you vow," the priest continued, "to uphold devotion to her, in public and private, in health and hardship, in truth and conduct—"

"I do."

No hesitation.

No warmth.

Just obedience.

Then it was her turn.

"Do you, Seraphine Elion, take Callum Virell to be your lawfully wedded husband—"

"I do," she said clearly.

Her voice did not falter.

"And do you vow to uphold devotion to him, in public and private, in health and hardship, in truth and conduct—"

"I do."

There was no vow of love. No mention of cherishing. Only promises of forever.

Just loyalty.

Just what the contract demanded.

Just what was left.

---

The rings were exchanged.

Cold metal sliding against colder skin.

"You may now…" the priest hesitated.

He looked between them.

Callum gave a nod, sharp and short.

Sera didn't move.

The priest cleared his throat. "You may now seal the vow."

He looked between them.

Sera didn't wait.

She turned toward him—graceful, unhurried, eyes cold like polished steel. Her gloved hand reached up and gripped the lapel of his suit.

And then, before anyone could even gasp, she pulled him down and kissed him.

Not a peck.

Not for show.

But something long. Unrelenting. Deliberate.

Callum's eyes widened as her lips pressed to his—unyielding, firm, commanding. He wanted to push.

He didn't breathe.

Until—

Her voice cut into him between their mouths, low and fierce.

"Open your mouth."

He clenched his jaw. But her nails dug slightly into his collar. Her body was flush against his now, elegant and immovable.

"Kiss me back," she whispered, "or I will make this humiliation last longer."

It wasn't seduction.

It was a dare.

A declaration.

He gave in.

His mouth parted, and the kiss turned electric—slow, burning, devastating. His hand came up without thinking, gripping her waist tightly and painfully. A groan caught at the back of his throat. She drank it in.

Then, just as his mouth began to respond, just as something dangerous stirred in his chest—

She pulled away.

Calmly. Cleanly. Leaving him breathless and locked in place.

The applause came in waves now—louder, heavier, like a tide crashing through the room. None of the guests could tell if it had been a performance or possession.

But Callum knew.

He had been conquered.

By a kiss he didn't understand.

And by the woman who now stood beside him—as his equal. His challenge. His reckoning.

---

Callum's pen scratched across the page like he was cutting his enemy's throat.

Seraphine followed.

When it was done, the orchestra resumed.

The priest turned to the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen… I present to you: Mr. and Mrs. Callum Virell."

The applause came like thunder.

But neither the bride nor the groom smiled.

They simply stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing a future neither of them had chosen—but one both had claimed.