Parker
I f e l t l i k e I was suffocating in this fucking dress. The lace of my wedding gown, delicate and hand-stitched, felt like a noose around my throat. The diamond tiara nestled in my pinned-up curls sparkled under the soft lighting, but it might as well have been a crown of thorns. I was beautiful. A princess ready for her fairy tale but this shit wasn’t a fairy tale. This was a prison sentence wrapped in money and power.
The mirrors in the bridal suite reflected a picture-perfect bride, but all I saw was a woman trapped. My hands clenched at my sides, the weight of my engagement ring—a new one, picked by Shooter—burning against my skin. It might’ve been the biggest rock I’d ever seen, but it was truly nothing special.
A knock on the door made me flinch. “Ten minutes,”
came my father’s voice, cold, clipped and impersonal.
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned away from the mirror, forcing myself to breathe. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I should’ve had a father who actually gave a damn about my happiness. I should’ve had a mother to help me, to wipe my tears, and to tell me I was making the wrong choice. But my mother had run away when I was a toddler, unable to take this life anymore.
And now, I was standing here, dressed for a wedding I never wanted, about to marry a man I feared, resented, and—God help me—found devastatingly attractive.
The church was filled with power players from both sides of the family. Criminals disguised as businessmen. Women draped in designer gowns, whispering behind champagne flutes. The weight of a legacy built on blood and wealth pressed down on me with every step I took down that fucking aisle.
Shooter stood at the front, a picture of control. His black tux was sharp, perfectly tailored to his tall, muscular frame. The crisp white shirt beneath it was unbuttoned at the collar, like he couldn’t be bothered to play the perfect groom. But those blue eyes—cold, dark, and piercing—never left me. I gripped my bouquet tighter, my pulse pounding. He looked good. Too damn good. But his presence was suffocating.
The priest droned on, and I barely heard a word. My vows were spoken on autopilot, my lips moving but my heart numb. Then Shooter’s deep, measured voice cut through the haze.
“I do.”
The words settled over me like a death sentence. A shiver ran down my spine as he slid the diamond wedding ring onto my finger, his grip firm, possessive. He didn’t smile. Didn’t even pretend as I slipped the wedding band my father purchased for me to give to him on Shooter’s finger. And when the priest finally said, You may kiss the bride, Shooter did something I wasn’t expecting.
He gripped my chin, tilting my face up, and brought his lips so close to mine that it tickled. He grinned and whispered, “Good girl.”
The ballroom was decorated in gold and ivory, elegant and extravagant, filled with people drinking, laughing, and celebrating. Of course, I played my part flawlessly. I smiled, mingled, and danced. I let Shooter’s hand rest possessively on my waist as we made our rounds, greeting family members and business associates.
But resentment simmered beneath my skin. I was trapped, and everyone who knew knew. Shooter never let me stray too far. He watched me, those cold blue eyes tracking my every move. At one point, I felt the weight of his gaze from across the room, and when I turned, he lifted his glass in a silent toast. A warning. A promise. I scowled and turned away. But my pulse betrayed me, thudding hard against my ribs. I couldn’t wait for this day to be over with.
T h e r e c e p t i o n e n d e d late, and I was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Shooter and I rode in silence, and I was glad. I didn’t have shit to say. I knew my clothes, shoes, and other belongings had been dropped off during the ceremony, and I would be given my phone back once settled in.
My hands twisted in my lap, the wedding ring on my finger like a fucking shackle. This nigga sat beside me, his arm stretched along the back of the seat, relaxed. Confident. Like a man who had won.
When we finally pulled up to his penthouse, I barely waited for the limo to stop before pushing the door open and stepping out. Shooter followed at his own pace, his presence a force behind me. The moment we stepped off the elevator, I rolled my eyes at the guards on standby and turned to Shooter. “I want my own room.”
His lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”
I lifted my chin. “I’m taking the guest room.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t push. He just stared, that unreadable blue gaze locking onto mine before he finally spoke.
“Lock the door if it makes you feel better.”
His voice was low, taunting. Like he knew it wouldn’t matter. Like he knew, eventually, I wouldn’t want it locked at all.
I swallowed hard and turned on my heel, walking away before he could see how much he got under my skin.