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"Sit down and shut up," Damien orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. They comply if only out of sheer astonishment, taking their seats across from us. Damien grasps my hand, and we sit opposite them.
"Isabella and I are getting married. The priest will be here within the hour," he states firmly, looking directly into his mother's outraged eyes.
The news hits them like a seismic wave, and their expressions morph quickly from anger to disbelief.
"You cannot be serious!" his mother's voice thunders.
"This is madness!" Aurora adds with a seething rage.
The room devolves into chaos as they explode with fury. The news of the impending wedding kindled a wildfire of indignation. The maelstrom of voices ramps up, each word a serrated dagger meant to rattle me. I feel Damien's hand, warm and steady, reassuring me. A silent vow that we're in this together. The air thick with hostility is choking.
Leaning towards Damien, my voice is barely above a whisper. "Maybe this isn't the right thing to do. They hate me, and I—I don't want to be the reason for more conflict in your family."
Damien cups my cheek with a tender look. "Let the world challenge us. Let them come with their swords and judgments. They'll find us standing, unbreakable. You are the queen of my dark kingdom, Isabella, and I, your relentless king."
I’m speechless by his words. Meanwhile, his mom and sister are shouting in the background.
Damien's response slices through the clamor like a commandment. "Enough!"
The word echoes, absolute, and the room snaps to a heavy silence. Everyone's eyes fixate on him as the aftershock of his bellow fades. "Listen to me," he says with clarity that thrums with authority. "Isabella is not responsible for Jackson's death. She is going to be my wife. She is going to be the mother of my child."
The revelation hammers into the silence, and his mother's gasp is the crack in a dam about to burst. "She's pregnant?" The incredulity in her voice is mirrored on Aurora's face.
"Yes, she is," Damien affirms, each word a brick in the fortress he's building around me. "And you will accept her and treat her with respect."
The commandment lingers in the air, unquestionable and binding. His gaze doesn't falter as he addresses his family. "Wait here. We need to prepare." With those final words, he turns to me, and guides me out, leaving the turbulent sitting room and its stunned occupants behind.
As he leads me away from the chaos, we find sanctuary in a spare bedroom. The walls are bathed in soft pastel hues, and the ambiance calms my frayed nerves.
"This is where you'll get ready," he says with a tender but serious gaze. He runs a hand through his hair. A charming smile plays on his lips, and I can't help but smile back despite the turmoil within. "You know, tradition says a groom shouldn't see his bride before the ceremony," he teases, and with a playful wink, he's gone, leaving me wrapped in silence as the echo of his footsteps fades away.
Moments later, the door opens quietly and a maid steps in. Between her hands is a beautiful dress, more stunning than any I have ever imagined wearing. It’s the kind of gown that tells a story. A perfect blend of elegance and boldness, much like my feelings at this moment. However, I thought I’d wear what I have on, but I thank Damien for making it so nice on such short notice. She lays the dress out carefully, and her hands are skilled and gentle as she helps me prepare.
The fabric of the dress cascades onto my skin like a whispered promise. Each layer of lace and silk a stark contrast to the unrest outside these walls. I watch my reflection as the maid works silently, securing each button with careful fingers that I wish were my mother's. She’s not here, though, and the absence is a hollow ache in my chest. No maternal eyes to well with tears. No whispered blessings to cling to.
I always pictured my wedding day as a joyous occasion. I envisioned being enveloped in love and laughter, with my father's arm interlocked with mine as we walked down the aisle. A rite of passage accompanied by his proud smile. That vision crumbles with each sweep of the maid's gentle hands through my hair. This is not a union born of love. It is one necessitated by circumstance and dubious honor.
I should feel elation, yet all I feel is a spreading numbness as if with every pearl fastened, a piece of my dreams is stripped away. I’m doing this twice now, and both times, it feels like I am putting on a grand performance. Not stepping into a chapter of cherished togetherness.
The maid steps back as her work is now finished, and her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "You look beautiful," she says softly, with warmth touching her words and sincerity in her tone.
I catch a glimpse of myself, and the transformation is undeniable. A small smile curves my lips in a silent acknowledgment of her kindness.
"Thank you," I murmur, allowing myself this fragment of normalcy, this sliver of tradition in an otherwise untraditional day.
The mirror before me holds a beautifully adorned bride, yet I can see the sorrow in my own eyes. There’s a haunting solitude that drapes over me. A veiled reminder of the glaring absence of those who should have been my rocks today. My heart weighs heavy with the stark realization. I’m making a sacrifice on the altar of obligation and assumed debts of honor.
As I stand before the mirror, the dress enveloping me in its splendor, I find myself reflecting on its significance. The gown, undeniably magnificent, is a masterful creation of chiffon and tulle layered intricately with the finest lace. Its bodice, expertly fitted, accentuates the contours of my form with a gentle embrace, while the skirt flares out in a sea of soft folds, whispering against the floor with every subtle movement.
The sleeves, sheer and delicate, kiss my arms with a touch that rivals a lover's caress. Ornate beading adorns the dress like drops of morning dew, each catching the light and casting prisms around the quiet room. It's more than a mere wedding dress. It's a work of art. Damien really did plan everything.
With meticulous care, a veil of delicate lace is secured gently upon my head. The maid offers a small, warm smile, one that suggests a depth of understanding, before signaling it's time to return to the sitting room. My breath steadies and my heart is a drumbeat beneath the dress as I follow her lead downstairs to the sitting room.
Damien stands there, and his presence is a fortress in the center of the room as his eyes immediately find mine. As our gazes lock, I’m in awe of the intensity within them. It's as if he's silently vowing to protect us against the world. At this moment, he is unbelievably handsome. The lines of his suit are tailored to mold his form like a second skin, complementing a stance that’s both commanding and reassuring. The hint of vulnerability I notice only makes him more endearing, humanizing the strength he radiates.
His mother sits, and her demeanor is serene compared to before, yet the weight of her scrutiny is still there. Aurora, however, lets her anger pour from her gaze unabated. It’s clear she distrusts and disapproves, and her glower speaks volumes of distaste. Their reactions pale as Damien steps forward. The desire emanating from him dissolves my apprehensions and empowers me to face this union.
His fingers intertwine with mine, and he leads me closer to the makeshift altar. His hand is steady, squeezing mine reassuringly as if to say, ‘We’re in this together.’ The priest clears his throat, signaling the beginning of the ceremony, and the soft murmur of our small assembly quiets.
