I stood in the cathedral's bridal suite, staring at a stranger in the mirror.
The dress transformed me into someone else—someone beautiful, poised, untouchable. The veil cascaded down my back like a waterfall of lies. My makeup was flawless, applied by hands that weren't mine. Even my hair belonged to someone else now, twisted into an elaborate updo I'd never choose.
"Five minutes, Miss Winters," someone called through the door.
Not Miss Winters for much longer.
My hands trembled as I gripped the bouquet—white roses and lilies, funeral flowers dressed up as romance. Through the door, I heard the organ begin. Classical. Traditional. A mockery.
"It's time."
The coordinator—Victoria, always Victoria—opened the door. Beyond her, the cathedral stretched like a beautiful trap. Hundreds of faces I didn't know. Society elite, business associates, people who'd come to witness a transaction disguised as love.
My father waited at the end of the bridal suite hallway. He looked older in his tuxedo, shrunken. When he saw me, something broke in his expression.
"Isla." His voice cracked. "You look—"
"Don't." I kept my voice flat. "Just walk me down the aisle. That's all you have to do."
He offered his arm. I took it because I had to, not because I forgave him.
The cathedral doors opened.
Every head turned. The organ swelled. I walked forward on legs that didn't feel attached to my body, each step bringing me closer to the altar. Closer to him.
Lucian stood at the front, devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. He watched me approach like a businessman watching a merger finalize.
When I reached him, my father placed my hand in Lucian's. His palm was warm, his grip firm. Possessive.
"Dearly beloved," the priest began.
I stopped listening. The words washed over me—commitment, honor, love. Lies, all of it. This wasn't a wedding. It was a sale. The cathedral was just expensive wrapping paper.
"Do you, Lucian Blackwood, take this woman—"
"I do." His voice was steady, empty. Like he was signing a contract, not binding his life to another person's.
"And do you, Isla Winters, take this man—"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Lucian's hand tightened on mine. Not quite painful, but a warning.
"I do," I whispered.
The priest smiled, oblivious to the violence underneath. "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Lucian turned to me. For just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something I couldn't name. Maybe doubt. Then it vanished.
He lifted my veil with calculated precision. Leaned in. His lips touched mine, cold and controlled. A stamp on a document. A seal on a cage.
The congregation applauded. I tasted bile.
"Smile," Lucian murmured against my mouth. "We're married now."
I pulled back, forced my lips into something approximating joy, and let him lead me down the aisle as his wife.
The reception was held at the Plaza, of course. Only the best for Lucian Blackwood's acquisition.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors. Tables groaned under elaborate centerpieces. A string quartet played softly while society's elite congratulated us, their smiles sharp as knives.
"Such a beautiful couple," someone gushed.
"A perfect match," another agreed.
I stood beside Lucian, his hand on my lower back like a brand, and played my part. Smiled when expected. Thanked people for coming. Pretended this was real.
"Champagne?" A waiter appeared with a tray.
I grabbed a glass, draining half of it immediately. Lucian's fingers tightened on my waist.
"Careful," he said quietly. "Appearances matter."
"Of course." I took another sip, slower this time, meeting his eyes. "Wouldn't want anyone to think this isn't a fairy tale."
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, a voice interrupted.
"Lucian. Congratulations."
I turned to see a man approaching—late twenties, dark hair, warm brown eyes that seemed genuinely kind. He looked like Lucian, but softer somehow. Less sharp.
"Gabriel." Lucian's tone cooled further. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Wouldn't miss it." Gabriel's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He turned to me, extending his hand. "You must be Isla. I'm Gabriel Blackwood. Lucian's brother."
Stepbrother, something in Lucian's posture corrected silently.
"Nice to meet you," I managed, shaking his hand. His grip was gentle, his expression complicated—pity mixed with something else. Discomfort, maybe. Or guilt.
"You look beautiful," Gabriel said. "I hope you'll both be very happy."
The words sounded hollow, like he didn't believe them himself.
"Thank you," I said, because what else could I say?
Lucian's hand moved to my elbow, possessive. "If you'll excuse us, Gabriel. We need to greet other guests."
"Of course." Gabriel's eyes met mine for just a moment—an apology, maybe, or a warning. Then he melted back into the crowd.
"Who was that really?" I asked as Lucian steered me away.
"No one important."
But the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes had tracked Gabriel's retreat, told a different story.
The rest of the reception blurred together. Cake cutting. First dance. Toast after toast from people who didn't know me, celebrating a union that was anything but.
Finally, mercifully, it ended.
The penthouse was in Tribeca—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, cold perfection. Our luggage had already been delivered, my things mixed with his like we'd always belonged together.
I stood in the living room, still wearing my wedding dress, as Lucian loosened his tie.
"Your room is down that hallway." He gestured left. "Second door. Your belongings have been unpacked."
"My room?" I repeated. "Not our room?"
"I have no interest in playing house, Isla. You'll have your space. I'll have mine." He poured himself whiskey from a crystal decanter. "There are rules, of course."
"Of course," I said bitterly.
"You'll attend events as my wife. Smile appropriately. Behave appropriately. In public, we're a devoted couple. In private—" He took a sip. "In private, stay out of my way."
"And if I don't?"
He turned, his eyes cold. "Then I'll make your life considerably more difficult than it needs to be. I own you now, Isla. Your accounts, your freedom, your future. Everything you are belongs to me. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
Rage flooded through me. "I'm not your property."
"Legally, you are. Financially, you are. In every way that matters—" He stepped closer, looming over me. "You belong to me. Only me."
I wanted to slap him. To scream. To tear this beautiful dress off and set it on fire.
Instead, I lifted my chin. "Is that all?"
Something flickered across his face. Disappointment, maybe, that I wasn't fighting harder. Or satisfaction that I was learning my place.
"That's all. Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwood."
He walked away, disappearing down the opposite hallway. A door closed. Locked.
I stood alone in the vast living room, Manhattan glittering beyond the windows like a galaxy I could see but never touch.
This was my life now. This cold, beautiful cage. This man who'd bought me. This existence that wasn't mine.
I walked to my assigned bedroom—tastefully decorated, impersonal, a hotel room pretending to be home. My wedding dress rustled with each step, a ghost following me.
Inside, I finally let myself collapse.
The door clicked shut beh
ind me.
The lock turned.
And I realized with perfect, crystalline clarity that I was truly alone.
The cage had closed.
And there was no key.