Mia's POV
Christian's hand remained locked around mine as we walked back down the aisle.
Husband and wife.
The words kept echoing in my head, but they didn't feel real. None of this felt real.
Rose petals rained down on us. Guests cheered. Camera flashes exploded from every angle. And Christian smiled—a perfect, cold smile that didn't reach his eyes.
His thumb traced circles on my palm. To anyone watching, it looked affectionate. Tender.
But I felt the tension in his grip. The warning.
We need to talk.
His whispered words from the altar still burned in my ear.
The limousine waited outside the cathedral. Christian helped me inside, his hand at the small of my back. The touch sent heat racing up my spine—unwanted, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
He slid in beside me. The door closed. Privacy screen up.
We were alone.
I opened my mouth to explain, to apologize, to something
Not yet. Christian's voice was quiet. Controlled. The driver can hear through the intercom. We smile. We play the happy couple. We wait.
He draped his arm across the back of the seat behind me. To anyone looking through the windows, we were newlyweds sitting close, wrapped in each other.
In reality, Christian's body was rigid as steel.
The reception is at the Plaza, he said, his voice carrying a warmth that didn't match his expression. Three hours. You'll smile, you'll stay by my side, and you'll speak as little as possible. Understood?
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His hand moved from the seat back to my shoulder. His fingers traced a light pattern on my bare skin—gentle, almost tender. But his eyes were ice.
When people ask why you look different, you had work done. Minor adjustments. Nothing dramatic. His fingers continued their maddening path across my shoulder. When they ask about the honeymoon, we're going to the Maldives next month. When they ask how we met, you'll defer to me.
Christian
Not. Yet. Each word was clipped. Three more hours, Mia. Then we talk.
Hearing my real name in his mouth made my stomach flip.
The limo pulled up to the Plaza. Christian's expression transformed instantly—cold businessman to devoted groom in a heartbeat.
He smiled at me. A real-looking smile that would fool anyone who didn't see his eyes.
Ready, darling? he asked, loud enough for the driver to hear.
I wasn't ready. Would never be ready.
But I nodded anyway.
The ballroom was a fairy tale nightmare.
White flowers everywhere—roses and orchids and things I couldn't name. Crystal chandeliers dripping light. Tables covered in silk and gold. A four-tier wedding cake that probably cost more than my car.
And people. So many people.
Christian's hand never left my waist as we entered. Every eye in the room turned to us, and I wanted to disappear.
Mr. and Mrs. Christian Steele! the announcer's voice boomed.
Applause thundered through the ballroom.
Christian led me to the head table, his movements smooth and confident. He pulled out my chair, his hand brushing my lower back as I sat.
The touch burned through the thin silk of my dress.
You're shaking, he murmured in my ear, his breath warm against my neck. To anyone watching, it looked like a sweet nothing between newlyweds.
I'm terrified, I whispered back.
Good. You should be. His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. But smile anyway. Everyone's watching.
I forced my lips to curve upward.
The first course arrived—some fancy soup I couldn't identify. I picked up my spoon with trembling hands.
Your left hand, Christian said softly. Vivienne is left-handed.
My spoon clattered against the bowl.
Christian's hand covered mine under the table, steadying it. Switch hands. Now.
I transferred the spoon to my left hand, awkward and obvious.
An older woman at the next table—one of Christian's business partners, based on her expensive jewelry—leaned over. Vivienne, darling! You look absolutely radiant! Though I must say, you seem different somehow.
My throat closed.
Christian's hand squeezed mine under the table. Hard.
She had a little work done, he said smoothly, his voice full of pride. Just some minor adjustments. I think she looks even more beautiful, don't you?
The woman studied my face. Oh yes, of course! Very subtle. Very natural. Her smile was sharp. You're a lucky man, Christian.
I know, he said, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing my knuckles.
The gesture looked romantic. Loving.
But his eyes burned into mine with cold fury.
The woman moved away, and Christian's smile vanished.
That was close, he said quietly. Be more careful.
I'm trying
Try harder. He released my hand and picked up his wine glass. We have two hundred more people to fool.
The next two hours were torture.
Christian paraded me around the ballroom, introducing me to business partners, investors, society friends. Each conversation was a minefield.
Vivienne, you must be thrilled!
How does it feel to be Mrs. Steele?
You two make such a stunning couple!
I smiled. Nodded. Let Christian do most of the talking.
And tried not to notice how perfectly we fit together.
His hand on my waist felt natural. When he pulled me close for photos, my body curved into his like it belonged there. When he whispered instructions in my ear, his breath on my neck made my pulse race.
I hated every second of it.
Hated that my traitorous body responded to his touch. Hated that when he smiled—even his fake smiles—something in my chest tightened. Hated that I kept catching myself watching his mouth and remembering the kiss at the altar.
The kiss that had felt like lightning and lies all at once.
Time for our first dance, Christian murmured, guiding me toward the dance floor.
Panic spiked through me. I can't dance.
Yes, you can. I'll lead. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me close. His other hand captured mine. Just follow me. Don't think.
The music started—something slow and romantic that made my heart ache.
Christian pulled me against him, his body warm and solid against mine. One hand splayed across my lower back. The other held my hand against his chest.
I could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled.
Unlike mine, which hammered wildly.
Look at me, he commanded softly.
I tilted my head back. Our faces were inches apart.
Everyone's watching, he said. They expect to see a bride in love. So look at me like you love me.
I don't know how
Figure it out. His hand tightened on my back. Or this whole charade falls apart right here.
I stared into his ice-blue eyes and tried to look loving instead of terrified.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back to my eyes.
Better, he said quietly. Now smile.
I smiled, and something flickered across his face. Something I couldn't read.
We danced in silence, moving together like we'd done this a thousand times. His lead was firm and confident. My body followed without thinking, fitting against him in ways that made my breath catch.
You're a better dancer than you claimed, Christian observed.
My dad taught me. Sunday afternoons in the restaurant after closing.
His expression softened—barely, but I saw it. Henry Chen. Owner of Chen's Family Restaurant in Brooklyn. Fifty-eight years old. Heart attack three months ago.
I stumbled. Christian caught me, pulling me closer.
You investigated my father? Anger cut through my fear.
I investigate everyone. His voice was matter-of-fact. The moment I saw your face under that veil, I sent a text. My security team is very efficient.
Then you know he had nothing to do with this. He's innocent
I know. Christian's thumb stroked across my lower back—a gentle, maddening touch. I also know you're his favorite. That you bake lemon cookies for him every Sunday. That you turned down a job at a Michelin-star restaurant in Paris to stay with him after his heart attack.
Tears burned my eyes. Stop.
Why? It's the truth.
Because it's none of your business! My voice cracked. You don't get to know everything about me just because I walked down that aisle
You walked down MY aisle. In MY wedding. Wearing MY ring. His hand tightened on my back, holding me against him. Everything about you is my business now, Mia.
The music swelled. Christian spun me—graceful, practiced, and pulled me back against his chest.
Two more minutes, he murmured against my ear. Then we cut the cake. Then we can leave.
And then what?
His lips brushed my temple—a gesture that looked affectionate but felt like a threat.
Then we go home and discuss exactly what you've gotten yourself into.
Cutting the cake was humiliating.
Christian fed me a bite, his fingers lingering on my lips. The crowd cheered. Cameras flashed.
I fed him a bite, my hands shaking. He caught my wrist, steadying it, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse.
Steady, he whispered. Almost done.
Finally—FINALLY Christian announced we were leaving. The crowd cheered and threw birdseed as we rushed to the waiting limo.
The door closed behind us. Privacy screen up.
Silence.
Christian loosened his tie, his jaw tight.
I sat on the opposite side of the limo, as far from him as possible. My hands twisted in my lap, the wedding ring foreign and heavy.
Christian
Did your mother put you up to this? His voice was quiet. Deadly.
She, it's complicated
Did. She. Put. You. Up. To. This.
Yes, I whispered. But not the way you think
Then explain. He turned to face me fully. You have until we reach my penthouse. Make it good.
So I told him everything.
Vivienne running away. The stolen wedding money. Mom's gambling debts. Dad's heart condition. The impossible choice between letting my father die and walking down that aisle.
Christian listened without expression. Without interruption.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
Your sister is in Paris, he said finally.
I know. I saw her text before the ceremony—
With a man named Damian Cross.
My eyes widened. How did you—
I told you. My team is efficient. Christian's smile was cold. Did you know Damian Cross is wanted for fraud in three countries?
The world tilted. What?
Your sister ran away with a con artist. They apparently got married this afternoon in a courthouse. He checked his phone. Interpol is closing in. They'll be arrested within hours.
No. This couldn't be happening.
We have to warn her—
No. Christian's voice was flat. We don't.
She's my sister!
She's an adult who made her choices. His eyes were merciless. And you made yours.
The limo stopped. We'd arrived at his building.
Christian opened the door and held out his hand.
Come inside, Mrs. Steele, he said. It's time to negotiate your new contract.
His hand hung in the air between us. A lifeline or a trap—I couldn't tell which.
But I had nowhere else to go.
I placed my hand in his and let him lead me inside.