I woke up to silence.
The kind that didn't feel peaceful — it felt like the moment before a lightning strike.
Today, I became Lila Blackwell.
The name sat on my tongue like a drop of honey laced with poison. Sweet. Dangerous. Irrevocable.
I pushed off the sheets and sat up in the bridal suite. The sun was golden against the tall glass windows, spilling over fresh white orchids and pale pink roses delivered sometime before dawn. My phone was already buzzing with messages from stylists, coordinators, and people I didn't even know.
But not from Dominic.
He hadn't messaged me once.
Which meant either he was calm as ever…
Or he was spiraling under that perfect surface because he hadn't seen the dress.
The real dress.
The one waiting in a box labeled only:
"To Be Worn in Fire."
By ten, I was surrounded by stylists, makeup artists, and a glam team that could've rivaled a Vogue cover shoot. Soft brushes fluttered over my cheeks. A champagne flute stayed filled in my hand. Everyone was moving like a machine — perfectly timed and synchronized.
But I barely noticed them.
Because my eyes were on the gown hanging in the far corner of the room.
My dress.
Not the one Dominic's team had selected.
Not the one I was supposed to wear.
The one I chose.
The one that felt like me.
It was just after noon when the room cleared out so I could dress.
Colette helped zip me in.
She didn't speak — just stood behind me, fastening the diamond straps and gently smoothing the embroidered roses along my hips. I stared at myself in the mirror as I stepped into my heels.
Ivory.
Bold.
Barely legal in three countries.
The plunging neckline made my heart race
The slit up the thigh whispered trouble.
And the back — open and dipped low —
felt like sin.
"You don't look like a bride," Colette whispered behind me.
I turned my head, lifting my chin.
"No," I said. "I look like a reckoning."
They tried to hide me as they walked me down the long marble hallway to the chapel. My veil was sheer, trailing down my back like fog. My dress whispered with every step.
I heard them before I saw them — hundreds of guests in muted awe. The Blackwells were royalty in every way but blood. Every billionaire, politician, and socialite worth knowing was inside.
Waiting for me.
And him.
Dominic.
The man I was about to walk toward. The man I was about to give my name to.
Or take his.
The doors opened.
Gasps rippled through the cathedral.
Every head turned.
Every camera stilled.
And at the far end of the aisle — in a jet black suit and steel-gray tie — stood Dominic Blackwell, watching me like I was something he'd been starving for his entire life.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes flared.
His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to come down the aisle and carry me the rest of the way himself.
Good, I thought. Let him feel it.
I stepped forward.
Every heel-click on the marble echoed like thunder.
When I reached him, he didn't speak. He just reached for my hand.
And leaned in, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"You planned this," he murmured against my ear.
I smiled under the veil. "You said you wanted the world to see what belongs to you."
He growled low in his throat. "And now every man here wants what they can't have."
"Exactly."
He didn't speak again.
But the look he gave me said everything: You win. And now I'm going to ruin you for it.
The vows were short.
His eyes never left mine.
And when he said "I do," it was like a promise laced with a threat.
Possessive. Intoxicating.
When the priest gave the nod, Dominic lifted the veil — slowly — and stared like he'd never seen me before.
Then he kissed me.
Not gentle.
Not polite.
But full-on, breathtaking dominance. His hand slid around the back of my neck, pulling me into him like he didn't care who was watching — like the cameras and guests had vanished.
The crowd erupted.
But I didn't hear a thing.
All I felt was him — his mouth, his heat, the way he held me like I belonged nowhere else.
We didn't speak in the limo.
He sat beside me, hand resting on my thigh, fingers lightly circling where the slit opened high enough to show skin that only he had touched.
"Do you have any idea what you did to me today?" he asked, voice rough.
I looked over, lips parted.
"Turned you on?"
He laughed, low and dangerous. "You walked down that aisle like you owned it. Like you owned me."
I leaned in, whispering against his lips. "Maybe I do."
He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me again — hungry, rough, devastating. I moaned into it, letting the taste of champagne and chaos sink deep into my bones.
"Don't ruin the dress," I breathed when he slid his hand under the fabric.
"I'll buy you a hundred more."