Chapter 10
The snoozing sound of my phone woke me. My fingers brushed the mattress as I fished it out. I opened one eye and silenced the alarm. Slowly, I swung my legs off the bed, shutting my eyes tight and clutching my head as a sharp pound throbbed behind my skull.
"Damn headaches," I hissed, dropping my feet to the floor.
I stood, rubbing my temples as I headed to the bathroom.
My feet skidded on the polished floor, and I sighed.
Today was the wedding day—and here I was, battling a headache.
I flicked on the bathroom light. "I shouldn't have stayed up so late last night. "
I stopped in front of the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes made my pale skin look even paler.
I sighed again, grabbed my toothbrush, applied toothpaste, and began brushing.
My reflection stared back. Today I'd marry Sloane.
I should feel happy. I did—but beneath it, a thread of unease twisted in my stomach.
As I spat the toothpaste into the sink, I noticed a trace of blood.
"What...?" I mumbled, my voice muffled as I stared at the mirror.
Blinking, I spat again—another streak of blood.
"What the heck?" I hissed, turning on the faucet and rinsing my mouth.
I washed my toothbrush and set it back in its holder.
Opening my mouth to check my gums, my fingers froze.
I blinked, reaching for the corner of my lower lip—and found a cut.
My index finger touched the wound, coming away streaked with blood.
I sighed. "I might've overbrushed... got a little carried away," I muttered, clicking my tongue and wiping my face with the palm of my hand.
Shrugging off my robe, I tossed it into the laundry basket and stepped into the shower. Warm water cascaded over me, massaging my tense muscles. I let it run over my body as I lathered, closing my eyes to steady my nerves.
My stomach tightened in knots. Anxiety? Fear? I didn't know. Brushing it aside, I turned off the shower, pulled on another robe, and patted my hair dry.
Walking out of the bathroom, I reached for undergarments. A chime from my phone caught my attention. Sloane. I picked it up, smiling faintly.
"Are you awake already? Don't be late."
I shook my head, locked the phone, and set it on the bed. I approached the wardrobe, where my suit hung neatly pressed. Removing my robe, I stood in front of the mirror. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Damn, I definitely lost some weight."
My fingers grazed the hem of my suit as I heaved a sigh. "Am I doing the right thing?" I whispered to myself, picking up the trousers and sliding them on. Reaching for the long-sleeved shirt, my hands trembled as I buttoned it carefully and tucked it into the waistband.
I pulled on the blazer, laced up my leather shoes, and studied my reflection.
Then I headed to the vanity table and sat down.
I applied sunscreen to my face and dabbed a soft pinkish-red lipstick on my lips.
I stood, but a wave of dizziness hit me.
I gripped the chair, closing my eyes as my breaths came in short, uneven bursts.
A soft knock sounded at my door. "Come on in," I called, still clutching the chair.
The door creaked open. "Ms. Aurora?" Celeste's voice trembled. My vision blurred. "Are you alright?" She hurried toward me, and the room seemed to double in size as I blinked. "Come sit," she urged, helping me lower onto a chair.
"I feel so hot..." I murmured, my palms clammy, the back of my neck slick with sweat.
A warm hand pressed against my forehead. "Ms. Aurora, you have a low-grade fever. Should I call Ms. Duvall?"
I waved her off, shaking my head. "No, no," I chuckled, trying to mask my discomfort. "I'm fine—maybe just wedding jitters."
"But—" she began, but I gripped her wrist firmly.
I looked up at her, my head spinning. Fainting felt like an imminent possibility. "Celeste, do me a favor."
"Go to the Opéra de Monte-Carlo and wait there. If Sloane arrives first, tell her something came up—but I'll be there." I struggled to steady my breathing, the pounding in my head relentless.
"But, Ms. Aurora—"
"Come on," I said, patting her hand. "Just tell her I'll be a little late. Bring the driver with you; I'll drive myself from here to the wedding location. Don't mention I'm sick."
"Y-yes, Ms. Aurora," she agreed hesitantly. She stepped toward the door but paused, returning with a bottle of water. "Here. Have a drink," she said, bowing slightly before leaving.
"Thanks, Celeste," I murmured, swallowing hard as I took a long gulp. The click of the door behind her echoed in the quiet room.
I swallowed hard, drinking deeply, then slammed the bottle on the vanity. I lowered my head, shutting my eyes. "Of all days to be sick... it has to be today." The throb in my ribs sharpened.
Taking deep breaths, I straightened and smacked my cheeks lightly. "You're fine, Ro. You're fine. Time to go to your wedding. And if Sol gets mad and pulls out her investments... well, you'll deal with that too."
I forced myself to stand, swallowing hard, a faint smile on my lips. "Let's get this over with. This is my wedding. Even if it's fake... as long as it's with Sol, it's fine."
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I pulled to a stop in front of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo. The bridal car was parked nearby, and my throat tightened as I stepped out, handing the keys to the valet we had hired. With a polite bow, I strode toward the car.
Applause rippled through the guests as they caught sight of me.
I gave them a small smile and a subtle nod before stopping at the back seat, knocking lightly on the window.
It rolled down just enough for me to glimpse Sloane behind her veil.
My heart thundered in my chest—I almost forgot how to breathe.
She was ethereal.
The glass lifted again, and I opened the door. Sloane stepped out, her voice cool as ever. "Thought you'd decided to pull out on the wedding day."
I winced, smiling shyly. "I'm sorry. Something came up."
Her gaze lingered. "You... cut your hair."
Instinctively, I touched it. "Ah. Yeah." My face heated as she noticed.
Her lips curved faintly. "It suits you." Her eyes never left mine. "Lean down for a moment."
I hesitated. "What—" But she snatched a napkin from her secretary and dabbed at my lips. A smear of red stained the fabric.
"You're bleeding. Bit it again, didn't you? Old habit." She shrugged, folding the napkin before handing it back.
I offered a sheepish smile. "Anyway..." I swallowed a lump. "You're beautiful, Sol."
Sloane paused, tilting her head with a soft chuckle. "Thanks." Her gaze shifted to the fa?ade of the Opera. "Today... will be the biggest public spectacle for our two empires, won't it?"
I hummed in agreement, offering her my arm. She rested her hand on it, the other clutching her bouquet of white orchids—her favorite. The wedding coordinator ushered the guests inside.
"You know," Sloane continued, "all we need to do is smile for the cameras, say our fake vows, and 'I do.' Oh, and a kiss. Just for show." She laughed softly as we stepped into the gilded hall.
I only spared her a glance before looking forward.
The chandeliers of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo glittered like constellations trapped in crystal.
Music swelled—strings and piano echoing through the grand chamber.
Every seat was filled: Monaco's elite, reporters from Paris and Rome, whispers of old-money aristocrats who had flown in to witness this union.
This union that blurred the lines between empire and. .. something I couldn't name.
A murmur rippled through the audience as we walked. I in my tailored ivory pantsuit, Sloane beside me, fire made flesh. The crowd rose, applause blooming like a storm. Cameras clicked in rapid bursts, their flashes dizzying. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself.
What once sounded elegant—the music—now pounded against my skull.
Sloane's fingers pressed harder against my arm, steadying, controlling. "Smile," she whispered, soft enough for only me. "They're all watching our show."
I forced my lips into a curve, brittle, fragile. My head throbbed. Cold sweat slid down my back. My ribs tightened with each step.
At the altar, I knew what this was: not a wedding, but a spectacle.
A performance of love, of power, of influence.
To me, it was a sealing of my fate. Every gilded corner of the Opera stood witness as I stepped not only into a marriage—but into a cage.
A cage I would willingly occupy. Not only because I needed Sloane's fortune to sustain my empire, but because. .. it was Sloane I was marrying.
As the officiant began, everything blurred. Voices stretched thin, drifting away. I blinked at him, barely processing the words.
We had hired him from the Netherlands to officially officiate, since Monaco would not recognize a same-sex marriage. But Sloane had already arranged for us to register it as a civil union afterward, binding us legally here as well.
My pulse hammered as she turned to face me.
"Aurora DeLacroix," Sloane began, each syllable soaked in steel, "you are the ruin and the reason of my life.
You broke me once, and still—I wanted no one else.
I built an empire, only to stand here today and say I would burn it all, if it meant binding you to me again.
Before these witnesses, I vow that you will never walk away from me a second time. Not in this life, not in the next."
Her words sank into me like claws. To the audience, it sounded like devotion, poetry. To me, it was a warning. A verdict. Just as it was written in the contract between us.
The officiant turned to me. My throat dried, my prepared vow trembling in my hand. I stared too long at the paper, then crumpled it, lifting my chin to meet Sloane's gaze. Her brow arched beneath the veil.
I didn't need scripted words.
"Sloane Duvall," my voice rang out, though my hands trembled, "you are my greatest mistake and my greatest love.
For all the years apart, for every wound we carved into each other, the truth never changed: you have always been the only one.
I vow, before them all, to stand by you until I can't stand anymore.
And when that day comes, I hope you will remember that I loved you—ferociously, foolishly, completely. "
The officiant smiled. "Do you, Sloane Duvall, take Aurora DeLacroix to be your partner in this union, binding your lives together in love, loyalty, and commitment for all your days?"
Sloane's eyes locked onto mine, dark and unwavering. The corner of her lips curved into the faintest smile.
"I do," she said. Her voice was deliberate, firm. To others, it might have sounded like devotion, but to me it rang not as a promise—rather, a verdict. Final. Irrevocable.
A hush rippled through the audience. The officiant turned to me. "And do you, Aurora DeLacroix, take Sloane Duvall to be your partner in this union, binding your lives—"
His words warped, growing distant. His mouth moved, but I couldn't hear. The hall swam before my eyes.
"Ro." A firm touch from Sloane pulled me back, tethered me.
Blinking, I turned to her. The officiant's words repeated, each syllable pressing like a weight. I could only see Sloane—her eyes, her grip, the steel of her will.
I swallowed hard, my throat desert-dry. My nod felt heavy, mechanical. "I do," I whispered, so soft it should have vanished in the air. But the officiant seized it, amplified it, and released it into the hall as though thunder had cracked the marble walls.
"I now pronounce you wives," he declared. "You may now kiss each other."
My hands lifted, trembling as I raised Sloane's veil. My breath hitched when her face came into full view—familiar, devastating, inevitable. I cupped her cheeks, her hands sliding to rest firmly on my shoulders, grounding me, binding me.
I leaned in, sealing the marriage with a kiss meant to be a gesture, a formality. But the moment I tried to draw back, Sloane deepened it, her lips pressing harder, claiming me in front of them all. It wasn't gentle. It was a possession, a verdict sealed with breath and heat.
The hall erupted—applause like thunder rolling through marble and gold, flashes exploding from every corner. Deafening. Blinding. The world cheered while my chest pounded so violently it felt like my ribs might shatter.
Almost unconsciously, my hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer. I smiled against the kiss, a smile that was half-reflex, half-plea. When we finally broke apart, slowly, she left me reeling.
Sloane's fingers brushed my lips, smearing the faint trace of red left there. Her smile was small, razor-sharp. "Easy, Ro. You're rather convincing when you act like you're really in love with me," she whispered.
My throat tightened, but I forced the words out, low and raw. "Because I am."
Her eyes held mine for a moment, searching, unreadable—then she turned to the roaring crowd, her smile perfectly poised. She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. I knew her well enough to read the truth in her silence.
She didn't believe me.