Two days before the wedding, Theodore Sr. called Arthur Evans. The conversation started with pleasantries about the weather and the stock market. Then, in a casual, almost offhand tone, the old man mentioned Blackwood Industries, a competitor that had gone bankrupt overnight a few years prior.
"A shame," Theodore Sr. mused. "Some people just don't know how to appreciate an opportunity when it's handed to them."
The veiled threat landed with the force of a sledgehammer. A cold sweat broke out on Arthur's brow. Any last, desperate thought of backing out evaporated. He relayed the conversation to Aracely. She understood. This wasn't a merger. It was a command.
The wedding day arrived with a grim, gray dawn.
Aracely sat before a mirror in her bedroom while a makeup artist named Jenna Price fussed over her.
"You're the most beautiful bride I've ever seen," Jenna gushed.
Aracely stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was a stranger, her face a perfect, emotionless mask. The wedding dress was a masterpiece of lace and silk, breathtakingly beautiful and as constricting as a straitjacket.
In a suite at the Roy Manor, Alaric fastened his own tie, waving away the offered help of his staff. The light caught on the custom platinum cufflinks at his wrists, a flash of cold fire. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, his deep gray eyes vacant. This wasn't a marriage. It was the closing of a deal.
He opened a drawer and took out a silver picture frame. The smiling face of a teenage girl looked out at him. He traced her cheek with his thumb.
"Kira," he murmured, his voice thick. "I'm coming, little sister. I'll find you soon."
The ceremony was held in a historic church owned by the Roy family. The pews were filled with the city's elite, a sea of power and influence.
Walking down the aisle on her father's arm, Aracely felt like she was floating outside her own body. Each step was a slow march toward a life sentence.
Then she saw him, standing at the altar. His back was to her. He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his shoulders broad, his posture radiating an aura of cold, unapproachable power.
It was the first time she had ever laid eyes on Alaric Roy.
As she reached his side, he turned. Their eyes met.
His were the color of a winter storm, a deep, turbulent gray. There was no joy in them, no warmth. Only a chilling, analytical assessment, the look a man gives a known adversary. She saw his reluctance, but it was the sharp, contemptuous edge to his gaze that made her heart sink.
This wasn't a union of two unwilling participants. In his eyes, she was the enemy.
The priest, Father Miller, began to speak, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. Aracely's mind drifted. Was this it? Was this the end of her life?
Alaric noticed her distraction. A muscle in his jaw tightened.
It was time for the vows.
"Do you, Aracely Evans, take this man, Alaric Roy, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
A profound silence fell over the church. She hesitated for a heartbeat, two heartbeats. She looked up, into his eyes again. She saw a clear, impatient warning in their depths.
She thought of her parents. She thought of the foreclosure notice.
She closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, they were clear and calm. "I do."
The priest turned to Alaric. "Do you, Alaric Roy, take this woman..."
He didn't hesitate. "I do." His voice was clear, sharp, and as cold as steel.
"You may now exchange the rings."
Alaric picked up the simple platinum band. He took her hand. His fingers were like ice, devoid of any human warmth. He slid the ring onto her finger, the metal cold against her skin.
