Chapter 22 The Court Wedding
Isabella’s POV
The ride to the courthouse was silent.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind where two people share space without needing words.
This silence was thick. Heavy. Suffocating.
The sedan glided through morning traffic with effortless precision, the city moving outside the tinted windows as if nothing extraordinary was happening. People crossed streets. Coffee cups were lifted. Someone somewhere laughed.
Inside the car, time felt suspended.
My hands twisted in my lap, fingers knotting into the delicate fabric of my dress. The material was soft. Expensive. Carefully chosen.
Not by me.
My nails pressed through the cloth, biting into my skin as if pain could anchor me. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. Every inhale was shallow, strained, like my ribs had been wrapped in iron bands that tightened with each passing second.
I wasn’t ready for this.
Not for the courthouse.
Not for the vows.
Not for the man waiting inside.
My reflection stared back at me in the darkened window. Hair perfectly styled. Makeup flawless. A bride, by every visual standard.
A hostage, by every other measure.
When the car began to slow, dread unfurled in my stomach, cold and deliberate.
This is it.
The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop. The engine idled softly, indifferent to the fact that my entire life was about to fracture into before and after.
The driver stepped out first. He moved with controlled efficiency, rounding the front of the car before opening my door.
“Miss,” he said, voice neutral, professional. Like he was escorting me to brunch. Like this wasn’t a courthouse wedding arranged under threat.
I hesitated.
Not because I believed I could run. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think that.
But because stepping out meant acknowledging the reality of it.
Acknowledging that this was happening.
That I had not found a way out.
That he had won.
I drew in a shaky breath and forced my legs to move.
My heels touched the pavement with a soft, sharp click. The morning air was crisp, cool against my skin. It should have felt refreshing.
Instead, it burned.
Fear and anger coiled inside my chest, hot and suffocating. I straightened automatically, smoothing my dress down with trembling fingers. If I had to walk into this nightmare, I would at least walk in standing tall.
Before I could gather my thoughts, a man approached.
Mid-thirties. Tailored navy suit. Polished shoes. Confident stride.
“Miss Russo?” he asked, extending his hand.
His smile was professional. Calculated.
“I’m Ethan Price. Mr. Kingsley’s attorney.”
Of course he had an attorney waiting outside like this was a corporate merger.
I slipped my hand into his. His grip was firm but not aggressive. Efficient.
“Where’s Alexander?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Inside,” Ethan replied smoothly. “He’s finishing a call. Before the ceremony, he asked me to review a few documents with you.”
Paperwork.
Naturally.
I swallowed the bitter laugh threatening to rise.
I followed Ethan up the courthouse steps. The building loomed overhead, stately and impersonal. Marble columns. Wide stone stairs. A place built for justice.
It didn’t feel like justice.
It felt like a transaction.
Inside, the air was cool and sterile. The floors gleamed under bright overhead lighting. Our footsteps echoed too loudly in the nearly empty hallways.
The courthouse was quiet at this hour.
Private.
Convenient.
A prison disguised as a public institution.
Ethan guided me down a corridor and pushed open a set of double doors.
And there he was.
Alexander Kingsley stood across the room in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that fit him like it had been engineered onto his body. Crisp white shirt. Dark tie. Silver cufflinks catching the light.
He looked breathtaking.
Unfairly so.
A man like him should not look like that. Should not possess that face, that presence, and still be capable of the cruelty I had witnessed.
He carried himself like gravity bent around him. Like the room belonged to him. Like the outcome had already been decided long before I ever stepped into this building.
At first, he didn’t see me.
He was speaking quietly to another man, expression focused, posture relaxed but commanding.
Then I crossed the threshold.
Something shifted.
His head turned.
His eyes found me.
And everything else stopped.
The conversation cut off mid-sentence. The man beside him faded into irrelevance.
Alexander went still.
Not casually still. Not distracted.
Predatory still.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. I watched the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed. His fingers flexed once at his sides, the only outward sign of tension beneath his polished exterior.
Then his gaze moved over me.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
From my hair. To my eyes. Down the line of my shoulders. The fitted bodice of my dress. The length of my legs.
He took his time.
Not like a man admiring.
Like a man assessing something that already belonged to him.
My pulse hammered, but I forced myself not to look away.
Those eyes.
Silver-gray. Sharp. Intense. So bright they almost looked metallic under the courthouse lights.
They pinned me in place.
Stripped me down to every fear I’d tried to hide.
I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
This man is ruining my life.
For a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in his expression.
Then he moved.
Each step toward me was measured. Controlled. Not hurried. Not hesitant.
Ownership in motion.
But there was something different in the way he approached me this time. Something beneath the steel.
When he stopped inches away, I felt the heat of him. The faint scent of bergamot and something darker.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was lower than usual.
Rougher.
“You look beautiful.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I looked away, unsure of what to say. Maybe it was the way he stared , so intense, so focused. Or maybe it was because, for the first time, he had spoken to me without amusement or command laced into his words.
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.” My voice barely carried above a whisper.
Before I could process the moment, another voice broke the tension.
“So this is the woman who managed to leash Alexander Kingsley.”
I turned toward the sound, eyes landing on a man I hadn’t noticed before. Handsome. Ridiculously so. Dressed in an expensive suit, exuding wealth and confidence, he looked like he belonged in the same elite world as Alexander.
Do rich men only befriend other rich, ridiculously attractive men?
He was striking, but Alexander was beyond that. No one could compare Alexander.
I shoved the thought out of my head and focused on the newcomer. He stood with an easy posture, his grin sharp, his presence lighter, almost amused.
He extended a hand toward me, his smirk teasing.
“James King,” he said with a theatrical bow of his head. “Best friend. Occasional bad influence. And the only man in New York who dares to give him attitude.”
Despite the pressure crushing my lungs, despite the absurdity of the last twenty-four hours, a small, reluctant breath of amusement escaped me. There was something disarming about James. Warm. Effortlessly human. A sharp contrast to the glacial force standing beside me.
I hesitated only a second before slipping my hand into his. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, trust me,” James replied with a grin that could probably talk its way out of prison, “the pleasure is absolutely mine. I’ve been dying to meet the woman who managed to turn Alexander into a husband.”
Alexander’s head snapped toward him, his stare sharp enough to slice through marble. “James. Stop romanticizing it. You know I forced her into this.”
James lifted both hands in exaggerated surrender, laughter rumbling from his chest. “Fine, fine. There goes my best-man speech about destiny and soulmates.”
Alexander didn’t dignify that with a response. His attention shifted back to me, and his palm settled at the small of my back. Not gentle. Not rough.
Possessive.
“Come,” he said, voice low and controlled. “We need to review the contract.”
Of course we did.
Minutes later, I found myself seated at a long wooden conference table in a private room adjacent to the courtroom. The stack of documents in front of me was thick enough to anchor a boat.
Marriage.
Reduced to clauses.
Alexander leaned back in his chair across from me, long legs spreading with lazy confidence. The fabric of his charcoal suit pulled taut across his thighs as if even the material had to yield to him.
“Clause four,” he said calmly, flipping the page with slow, deliberate precision. “Shared residence and shared bed.”
My spine went rigid.
He didn’t look at the lawyer.
Didn’t look at James.
He looked at me.
“Just because I permitted you to sleep on the couch last night does not mean that becomes a permanent arrangement,” he continued, voice smooth and measured. “I am willing to accommodate you. As long as you meet my demand.”
I held his stare. “And your demand is what exactly?”
Alexander’s gaze drifted downward, slow and intentional, lingering at the V of my blouse before lifting back to my eyes.
“Agree with me,” he said quietly, “and I will take you every night until you forget you were ever fighting me.”
The air in the room shifted.
The lawyer’s pen froze mid-scratch. He adjusted his glasses, swallowing hard. “Mr. Kingsley, I… this isn’t standard , ”
“No.” Alexander never looked at him. “She needs to understand the terms.”
His knuckles brushed my wrist. Light. Brief. Charged.
“Thoroughly.”
A slow, devilish smile curved his mouth.
James snorted. “Bloody hell, mate. Save it for the honeymoon.”
Alexander ignored him completely.
“Problem?” he asked, eyes locked on mine.
“Yes.” I shoved my chair back, the legs screeching sharply against the polished floor. “This isn’t a real marriage. I won’t be your… your whore.”
The lawyer visibly flinched.
“Whore?” Alexander repeated softly.
His smirk didn’t fade. It sharpened.
He rose slowly from his seat, unfolding to his full height with predatory ease. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he moved.
He walked around the table without hurry, stopping directly in front of me. Too close. His suit brushed my shoulder as he leaned in, heat pressing against me, controlled and deliberate.
“You will be my wife,” he said, voice low, edged with steel. “And wives do what I say , spread for me when I want, take me deep when I tell you to.”
James groaned loudly. “For God’s sake, I’m still in the room, you savage.”
The lawyer slammed his notebook shut. “Mr. Kingsley, I must insist , ”
“Out,” Alexander said sharply, not raising his voice, but not needing to. His gray eyes never left mine.
“But the contract , ”
“Now.”
The lawyer scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his briefcase. James rose more slowly, draining his whiskey. “Try not to traumatize the poor girl before the ink dries, yeah?”
The door clicked shut.
Alexander gripped my chin, forcing my gaze up, his fingers firm, unyielding. “Alone at last.”
I glared at him, my breath coming fast. “Go to hell.”
His smirk faded into something colder, harder , his gray eyes locking onto mine, a storm of control that pinned me in place.
“You expect me to go weeks without touching you?” His voice dropped, rough and dangerous. “I have needs. Real ones. You think I’m just going to stand around waiting?”
Fury flared hot in my chest.
“I don’t care about your needs,” I shot back, slamming my palms against the edge of the table. “We already agreed. We only sleep together when the test is negative. If it’s positive, it stops. If it’s negative after two or three weeks, we try again. That’s it.”
I lifted my chin, meeting his stare head-on.
“If you want more than that, find someone else to entertain you. I won’t stop you.”
His expression shifted, dark and unreadable. “You’re serious,” he said quietly. “You would allow that?”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“This isn’t real,” I said, the exhaustion finally bleeding through my anger. “Sleep with whoever you want. I don’t care. Just… can we finish this? Marry me already and let me breathe.”
I was so tired.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of negotiating the terms of my own captivity.
I just wanted it done.
His smirk returned slowly, deliberately. “And you?” he asked, voice smooth and dangerous. “What about your needs?”
I stiffened.
“I don’t just fall into bed with strangers,” I said, though my voice wavered under his stare.
I forced myself to keep going. “I give myself to someone I care about. Someone I choose.”
My laugh was hollow. “But since you’ve made it clear I don’t get to choose anything for the next twelve months… I suppose I’ll adapt.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
His hand came up without warning, fingers closing around my jaw. Not bruising. Not frantic. Just controlled enough to tilt my face upward.
“You are not sleeping with anyone outside this marriage,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t the volume that made it threatening. It was the control.
My pulse spiked. “Excuse me?” I snapped, trying to pull my chin from his grip. “You don’t get to dictate that. If you think you can have your freedom while I sit here like property, you’re delusional.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t release me.
“You’re the one setting conditions,” he said, voice low, steady. “You’re the one refusing to be touched for weeks at a time while you wait for test results. I didn’t refuse you.” His gaze darkened. “If you feel lonely, if you feel restless, you come to me. No one else.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped me. “I will never come to you. You killed someone. You forced me into this marriage. I will never let you touch me willingly outside my biological schedule”.
Something shifted in his eyes. Not softness. Not exactly anger either. Something deeper. Possessive. Calculating.
Without another word, he released my jaw and reached for the contract. The pages flipped beneath his fingers with precise efficiency. His pen moved in one swift, deliberate stroke, crossing out a line with finality.
He slid the contract back toward me and tapped the paper once.
“Sign.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
My fingers trembled as I picked up the pen. The room felt smaller. Thicker. My name looked foreign as I scrawled it across the bottom of the page, quick and uneven, like I could outrun the weight of it by writing fast enough.
I shoved the papers back toward him.
The diamond on my finger caught the light, flashing cold and merciless.
A silent claim.
A gilded cage.