Chapter 7 Alex
I'm about to marry a man who hates me, and somehow that's not the weirdest part of my day.
The weirdest part is that I'm stone-cold sober.
Diana's orders. No champagne breakfast. No liquid courage. Not even a fucking mint julep, and it's my wedding day.
Instead, I'm standing in the groom's preparation suite at the Bellmont, adjusting platinum cufflinks, while my stomach churns like a washing machine.
"Your bow tie is crooked," Ricky says, appearing at my elbow.
I let him fuss with the silk, watching myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The reflection shows a man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread. Custom Armani tuxedo in midnight black, perfectly pressed shirt.
I look like a groom. I feel like a fraud.
"How many photographers are out there?" I ask.
"Seventeen," Ricky says without missing a beat. "Plus videographers from three major networks."
The door swings open and Diana sweeps in wearing cream silk, her steel-gray hair sculpted into submission. She’s had herself freshly Botoxed and her face doesn’t move when she speaks.
"Alexander." Her gaze rakes over me, checking for flaws. "You'll do."
High praise from Diana Norris.
"Feeling sentimental about seeing me off into marital bliss?"
"I'm feeling relieved that you haven't fled the country." She adjusts an invisible wrinkle on my lapel. "Remember—smile. Look besotted."
"Got it. Be charming, not myself."
"Exactly."
A knock at the door interrupts us. Ricky opens it to reveal a young man in an identical tuxedo, all floppy brown hair and nervous energy. He's maybe twenty-five, with the kind of face that suggests he's never had a serious problem in his life.
"Mr. Colborne?" He extends a manicured hand. "I’m Bradley. I'm your best man."
Right. Diana mentioned him. Son of one of the board members, selected because he looks good in photos and apparently his father is owed a favor. I've met him exactly once, at a charity auction where he bid seventeen thousand dollars on a weekend at some ski resort.
"Bradley. Thanks for stepping in." I shake his hand, noting the slight dampness of his palm. At least one of us is nervous.
"It's an honor, sir. My father speaks very highly of you."
That's a lie. His father thinks I'm a liability, same as the rest of the board. But Bradley's been trained in the art of polite fiction since birth.
"Time," Diana announces, consulting her platinum watch.
We file out like soldiers heading to battle into a hallway buzzing with activity.
The grand ballroom of the Bellmont could house a small aircraft.
Someone—Diana, obviously—has transformed it into a winter wonderland.
White roses cascade from every surface, their petals scattered down the aisle like snow.
The altar sits beneath an archway of more roses, so elaborate it looks like something from a fairy tale.
Hundreds of guests rise as we enter. I scan the crowd, trying to process the sheer scope of the circus.
My side—and how depressing that I think of it as "my side"—fills three-quarters of the ballroom. I see board members and their wives, dressed in their finest armor, CEOs and politicians, here because Diana called in favors and finally celebrities who showed up for the photo ops and free champagne.
Wait. Who the hell invited her?
Saskia Scarmetto is sitting in the third row, looking like a golden goddess in something that probably took a team of designers six months to create.
Her Oscar win last month has given her that extra glow of success.
She catches my eye and smiles. Thanks Diana.
Saskia’s presence will definitely guarantee a few extra column inches.
I don’t miss Saskia. She was fun but she was also nuts and for the love of Pete, I’d never have invited her to my wedding if it were my choice.
But then I’d have thought I’d get to choose the groom at my wedding too.
Jonah's side looks like a different species entirely. There are maybe fifty people, all in their Sunday best, clutching programs and looking overwhelmed.
The contrast is brutal. I take my position at the altar, Bradley flanking me. That's when I notice Pastor White.
The man looks like death warmed over.
"Pastor," I nod, attempting diplomacy.
"Mr. Colborne. I pray this union might lead you toward salvation."
Subtle. Real subtle. I paste on my most charming smile. "I appreciate the prayers."
He doesn't look convinced. Diana slides into the front row, her presence commanding immediate attention from the photographers. Flash bulbs start popping like tiny supernovas, and I realize the show has officially begun.
The music swells. I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
Then Jonah appears at the far end of the aisle, and every coherent thought evacuates my skull.
Holy fuck.
He's devastating in traditional white, the fabric cut to perfection against his lean frame. The jacket emphasizes those shoulders I've been trying not to think about, while the pants... hell, the pants should be illegal in several states.
But it's his face that stops my heart. All sharp angles and classical beauty, like someone carved him from marble and breathed life into the stone. Dark hair swept back, revealing the elegant line of his neck. Those whiskey-brown eyes focused straight ahead, not looking at me.
Yet.
He walks down the aisle with careful steps, his father on one side, his mother on the other.
His father looks proud and nervous, while his mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
In front of him, a small girl in a pink chiffon dress scatters rose petals with the serious concentration only a kid can muster.
The crowd cranes their necks, photographers jockeying for the perfect shot. I hear whispered comments floating from my side of the aisle:
"He's younger than I expected."
"Quite handsome, in a provincial way."
"Do you think he's actually a virgin?"
The last comment makes my hands clench into fists. Something hot and possessive roars to life in my chest.
Get it together, I tell myself. You barely know him.
But then his scent reaches me so pure and sweet it makes my teeth ache. My alpha instincts rear up like a beast, demanding I go to him, surround him, mark him as mine.
Instead, I stand frozen like an idiot, watching him approach.
He's twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
Then he's here, close enough to touch, and his parents step back to take their seats. For the first time since he appeared, Jonah looks directly at me.
The impact nearly drops me to my knees.
Those eyes, fuck, those eyes. Liquid amber shot through with gold, framed by lashes that belong in a makeup commercial. But it's not just the physical beauty that guts me, it's the vulnerability I see there.
He's terrified. Absolutely terrified. And he's doing this anyway.
My chest does something complicated.
Pastor White clears his throat, the sound echoing through the sudden quiet. "Dearly beloved," he begins, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction, "we are gathered here today to witness the holy union of Alexander and Jonah, an omega and alpha brought together by divine providence."
I try to listen, but all I can think about is how Jonah's scent grows stronger with each breath. How his pupils dilate when our eyes meet. How his lips part slightly, like he's forgotten how to breathe.
"Marriage," Pastor White continues, his voice gaining strength, "is not merely a legal contract, but a sacred covenant. A chance for redemption through love, for the purification of the soul through holy union."
A few of my celebrity guests exchange amused glances. I catch Saskia covering a laugh with her program, her shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth.
But Pastor White is just getting started.
"Let us pray that this union might serve as a beacon of righteousness," he proclaims, raising his hands like he's calling down divine intervention. "That through the love of a pure omega, even the most wayward alpha might find his path to salvation."
Lovely. Apparently I'm the cautionary tale in this particular sermon.
"The alpha," Pastor White continues, his gaze boring into me like a laser, "must learn to cherish and protect his omega, to put aside worldly temptations and embrace his role as spiritual leader of their household."
Spiritual leader. Right. I can barely lead myself to the bathroom some mornings.
"And the omega," his voice softens as he looks at Jonah, "must trust in his alpha's protection, must submit to his guidance while offering the gift of his pure heart."
Jonah's cheeks flush pink at the word 'submit,' but he keeps his gaze steady. Brave little thing.
The sermon goes on for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. More talk about redemption, about the sacred duty of marriage, about how love can transform even the most hardened sinner. Blah blah blah.
I zone out, focusing instead on Jonah's face. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The small scar near his left temple, barely visible unless you're looking closely. The fullness of his bottom lip.
Stop staring at his mouth, you pervert.
But I can't help it. Everything about him draws me in like gravity. The careful way he breathes. The slight tremor in his hands. The flush that creeps down his neck when he catches me looking.
"Now," Pastor White's voice cuts through my Jonah-induced haze, "we come to the exchange of vows."
Right. Vows. Traditional alpha-omega promises about protection and devotion and all the bullshit we're supposed to believe. Fortunately, she kept it short so they were easy to memorize.
I stumble over them without getting too many words wrong. Jonah says his without looking at me.
Bradley produces the rings from his pocket.
"Alexander," Pastor White prompts, "do you take Jonah to be your lawfully wedded omega, to have and to hold, to protect and cherish, for as long as you both shall live?"
The words stick in my throat. This is it. The point of no return.
I look at Jonah, standing there in his white suit. He's watching me with those impossible eyes, waiting for my answer.
"I do." The words come out rougher than intended.
Jonah's breath catches, just slightly. If I weren't watching so closely, I might have missed it.
"Jonah," Pastor White turns to him, "do you take Alexander to be your lawfully wedded alpha, to have and to hold, to honor and obey, for as long as you both shall live?"
A muscle jumps in Jonah's jaw at 'honor and obey.' But he lifts his chin, meeting my gaze.
"I do."
Simple words. They shouldn't affect me this much. But something in the way he says them makes my chest constrict.
We exchange rings with hands that shake slightly.
“By the power vested in me by God and the state," Pastor White pronounces, raising his arms, "I now pronounce you alpha and omega, husband and husband."
The ballroom holds its breath.
"You may kiss your husband."
This is it. The moment that will be splashed across every magazine and gossip site in the country.
I step closer to Jonah, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, to smell the vanilla sweetness that's driving me slowly insane. His lips part slightly, anticipation and nerves warring in his expression.
It's supposed to be chaste. A quick press of lips for the cameras, nothing more. Diana made that clear.
But the moment our mouths touch, everything goes to hell.
Heat explodes between us like napalm. Jonah makes a small, surprised sound that goes straight to my cock, and suddenly I'm drowning in honey and desire and the overwhelming need to claim.
My hands find his waist, pulling him closer. He melts against me like he was made for this, made for me, his own hands fisting in my jacket. The kiss deepens, all pretense of propriety.
Camera flashes erupt around us like fireworks, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is Jonah—the taste of him, the way he trembles against me, the little gasps he makes when I bite gently at his bottom lip.
This is insane. We're in front of a thousand people, being photographed by every major media outlet, and all I want to do is pin him against the nearest wall and show him exactly what kind of alpha he just married.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Jonah's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with arousal. His lips are swollen from my kisses, his carefully styled hair mussed where my fingers tangled in it.
The ballroom erupts in applause, but it sounds muffled, distant. Like we're underwater and everyone else is on the surface.
Jonah stares at me with something that might be shock and all I can think is that of all the messes I’ve got myself into in my life, this has to be the worst.