20 - The Wedding Photoshoot
The car ride stretched long and taut, silence hanging between them like a drawn wire.
Scarlett kept her gaze fixed on the window, the blur of city lights doing little to distract her from the sharp replay of everything left unsaid back at the studio.
Her teeth worked at her bottom lip, silently rehearsing the retorts she hadn't dared to voice.
Beside her, Ethan was all cool detached, murmuring into his phone.
The deep rumble of his voice filled the car's quiet with clipped discussions of acquisitions and market leverage, as if he were placing an order for takeout instead of reshaping companies.
His tone held the effortless authority of a man who never needed to raise his voice to dominate a room.
When the car eased to a stop, Scarlett blinked, pulled from her thoughts.
Outside the tinted window stood the gleaming, familiar fa?ade of Celestial Bridal.
Her pulse stuttered. She recognized it instantly—the haute couture sanctuary she'd admired since her apprenticeship.
To stand before it now felt like tumbling into a dream she had no warning she'd entered.
Before she could fully absorb the moment, the door opened.
A gloved hand appeared, offering silent assistance.
Mechanically, she accepted, stepping out into the amber-lit sidewalk.
Ethan was already there, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held hers a beat longer than necessary, like he was measuring her reaction.
Inside, the boutique felt like a different world. Crystal chandeliers refracted golden light across satin-lined walls. The air was a soft blend of perfume and fresh florals. Two assistants in flowing cream dresses glided toward them, all practiced elegance.
"Welcome to Celestial Bridal," the taller one greeted, her smile warm but precise. Her eyes moved from Ethan to Scarlett. "Are you the bride?"
The question hovered, delicate as spun sugar. Scarlett felt the weight of Ethan's gaze, patient but pressing.
"Yes," she said finally, voice low and a little rough.
The assistants lit up. "Wonderful. Let's get you ready. Your gown awaits."
They led her to a private dressing suite more luxurious than most hotel rooms. Velvet-lined walls and floor-to-ceiling mirrors created the illusion of infinite space. On a chaise of soft rose-gold velvet, the gown awaited—her gown. Her design. Rendered flawlessly into reality.
Scarlett moved toward it, breath stolen.
It shimmered with hand-sewn pearls and delicate crystal accents, the bodice structured yet soft, the fabric whispering against her skin like memory.
The assistants worked with gentle confidence, helping her into it with reverence and quiet murmurs. Each button fastened felt like a vow.
When the crystal-studded headpiece was placed in her hair, she no longer recognized herself. She looked ethereal. And impossibly, painfully real.
"Ma'am," one of the assistants said softly. "Your groom is ready."
That word—'groom'—struck something inside her. A ripple she couldn't quite name.
They guided her into the boutique's grand salon, where a platform sat beneath another chandelier. Ethan stood beside it. The sight of him pulled the air from her lungs.
Gone was the steel-wool business suit. In its place, an impeccably tailored black ensemble that hugged his frame with almost aggressive precision.
Crystal detailing at the lapel caught the light, echoing the embellishments on her gown.
He turned to face her fully, and for the first time, he looked less like a CEO and more like a man.
Their eyes met. The flicker in his gaze unsteadied her. Not just admiration. Not just a surprise. Something quieter. Something dangerous.
She stepped up onto the platform, movements slow, deliberate. Around them, the assistants flitted like stylists preparing museum exhibits. One straightened her train. Another adjusted his cuffs.
"Stand closer together, please," came a gentle instruction.
Ethan moved first, stepping in until only a sliver of air remained between them. Scarlett felt the warmth of him, the clean scent of cedar and citrus. Her pulse leapt.
"You look..."
His voice was roughened by something unfamiliar. She looked up.
"What?"
He hesitated, a ghost of a smile playing at his mouth. "Nothing."
"You were going to say something."
"If I do," he said quietly, "you might get the wrong idea."
She rolled her eyes, lips twitching. "Typical."
The photographer stepped in. "Sir, could you hold the bride's waist?"
Scarlett barely had time to brace before his hands found her. Not hesitant. Not possessive. Just... deliberate. His fingers curled lightly around her waist, and a current shot through her. Her breath hitched. The silk of the dress did little to buffer the heat of his palms. It was maddening.
She stared at the camera, trying to appear composed. But her mind spiraled: Had he always felt this solid? This warm? His grip was careful, almost reverent, and something in her belly twisted at the contact. Not fear. Not exactly desire. Something in between.
And Ethan... Ethan was unraveling.
The woman in his arms was not the adversary he'd sparred with over contracts and strategy. Not the liability he'd agreed to marry for convenience. She was light and steel, strength and softness. The scent of her—all citrus and lavender and something darker—clung to his senses.
His world, built on precision and predictability, felt off-kilter. Her presence blurred the lines. And for once, he didn't want them sharp.
The photographer's voice became distant as he studied the subtle defiance in her jaw, the flutter at the base of her throat. She didn't lean into him, but she didn't pull away either. It was enough to undo him.
The lighting painted the boutique in warm gold, and Scarlett stood before the mirror in silence, the gown's lace catching every fractured ray. Her fingers fussed with a sleeve, whispering, "Just a touch higher on the left."
Everything about the gown was perfection. But she didn't feel perfect. She felt... trapped. Wrapped in beauty and expectation. This wasn't love. This was leverage.
Movement in the mirror drew her attention. Ethan stood across the room, speaking to the boutique manager. His gaze caught hers in the mirror, and for one beat, everything else receded.
He was devastating. Of course he was. Sharp suit, sharper jaw, and colder eyes. And soon, he would be her husband. Not by choice. By necessity.
"Ms. Landon? Mr. Blackwood?" The photographer motioned them forward. "If you're ready, I'd like to get some photos."
Scarlett nodded, bouquet trembling slightly in her hand. White roses. Pure. Innocent. The symbolism tasted bitter.
She stepped forward slowly. Ethan met her halfway. No words. Just a presence that pressed into her awareness like gravity.
"Closer, please. Mr. Blackwood, if you could just..."
His hand returned to her waist. This time, she flinched. He didn't retreat. Instead, his grip adjusted, firmer but still gentle, pulling her just a fraction closer.
Possession. The thought knifed through her, swift and unwelcome. But beneath it was something worse: the realization that part of her wanted it. Wanted him, maybe. Not the ruthless executive, but the man who looked at her now like she wasn't just a chess piece on his board.
"Now look at each other."
Scarlett obeyed, hesitant. Their eyes locked. And something passed between them—raw, wordless, real.
His thumb moved slightly, a graze against her waist. Her spine lit up.
The camera clicked.
"Perfect," the photographer whispered. "That chemistry is exactly what we're looking for."
Scarlett looked away first, stepping back as if the space between them could erase the tension. But it lingered.
"I think we got some excellent shots," the photographer chirped.
Ethan, voice cool again, said, "Send them to my assistant."
Scarlett stood still, breath shallow. The memory of his touch lingered like a handprint on her skin. And for all the wrong reasons, she wasn't sure she wanted it to fade.