My palms didn't sweat. My breath stayed steady. Every step I took to the altar felt measured, automatic. Like a performance I had rehearsed since childhood.
Because in a way, I had.
I was born into legacy. Conditioned into expectation. Groomed for moments like this—moments that demanded poise, not feeling.
But as I stood at the front of the grand cathedral, beneath arches of white roses and golden light, something in my chest began to twist.
The music floated through the vast space, gentle and solemn. Guests whispered. Cameras blinked in the background. My mother sat near the front, elegant and proud, her expression a blend of hope and worry.
And then the doors opened.
The world fell silent.
Celine appeared like a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.
Her dress shimmered as she stepped into the sunlight spilling through the cathedral's stained-glass windows. No frills. No excess. Just clean elegance. Strength disguised as silk.
She didn't smile.
She didn't falter.
Her father walked beside her, tall and composed. But it was her—the fire in her eyes, the steel in her spine—that held the room's attention.
My heart knocked once against my ribs.
Then again.
And I hated that it did.
She was walking toward me, the woman I was supposed to marry. The woman I had grown used to sparring with in boardrooms and interviews, in glances and silences. And yet, in this moment, all I could see was her strength.
She met my gaze and didn't look away.
Even now, when she must have wanted to.
Even now, when I did.
The music swelled. The guests rose to their feet. I clenched my jaw, trying to ground myself in the ceremony, in the sequence of ritual and script.
But I wasn't prepared for how human this felt.
When Celine reached the altar, she handed her bouquet to her secretary—Sarah, who looked like she wanted to whisk her out the nearest side door—and stood beside me without saying a word.
Her arm brushed mine. A mere second. A flicker of contact. It burned.
The officiant began to speak, his voice echoing through the cathedral.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"
My mother's eyes shimmered. My grandfather, stone-faced, nodded once. Shareholders and reporters, masquerading as guests, leaned forward in their seats.
And still, we stood motionless.
Like two figures sculpted in marble, fated to stand side by side.
The ceremony blurred. Words passed over me like wind.
But then it was time.
"Blake Alexander Aldridge, do you take Celine Amelia Cater to be your lawfully wedded wife—"
I didn't look at the officiant.
I looked at her.
The woman I was marrying for a merger.
The woman I was marrying because the world expected us to.
But also the woman who never once pretended.
"I do," I said, voice low but firm.
She didn't flinch.
When her turn came, she stared straight ahead.
"I do."
Two words. Clear. Sharp. Final.
Then came the rings.
Oliver handed them to me from his seat near the front. Small, gleaming, symbolic.
I slipped the band onto her finger. My hand didn't tremble.
She did the same, and for the briefest moment, her fingers lingered on mine. A pause, almost imperceptible. Then she pulled away.
"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant said.
The cathedral fell into breathless silence.
I leaned in, slow and measured.
I could feel her resistance, not in her body, but in her stillness. A coldness she wrapped herself in like armor.
My lips brushed her cheek. Not her mouth. Not her forehead.
Just a whisper of contact, enough for the cameras.
When I stepped back, her expression hadn't changed.
We turned toward the crowd as the announcement was made.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Blake Aldridge."
Applause erupted. Flashes lit the cathedral. I took her hand in mine because that was what the moment demanded. Her fingers were cold. Mine were colder.
We walked down the aisle together, husband and wife.
But neither of us looked at the other.
Outside, the press waited like wolves.
We smiled, waved, posed.
She gripped my arm tightly—not out of affection, but stability. Like she needed something to ground her. Like I was the last solid object in a world spinning far too fast.
I hated that I understood it.
Back in the car, shielded from the crowd and flashing bulbs, silence fell again.
"You didn't have to kiss me," she said.
I didn't turn to face her. "I didn't. I kissed your cheek."
She stared out the window. "Still. It was unnecessary."
I looked at her then. At the hard line of her jaw, the defiance in her posture. The way she clutched her bouquet like a weapon.
"I was trying to be respectful."
She scoffed, quiet and bitter. "Too late for that."
The car kept moving. The city kept watching. We were on our way to the reception, another round of performance and spectacle.
"I don't expect anything from you," she said suddenly, voice flat. "Not kindness. Not honesty. Definitely not love."
My throat tightened, but I nodded once. "Understood."
She looked at me, then.
And for just a moment, her expression cracked.
Not into sadness. Not into affection.
But into weariness.
A shared exhaustion that settled between us like smoke.
We were husband and wife now.
Bound by a deal inked in gold and silence.
And still oceans apart.
But the ceremony was over.
The ring was on her hand.
And there was no turning back now.