She stood at the center, a vision of defiance wrapped in white, the train of her gown a river of crushed satin pooling around her feet. Eyes locked ahead, chin high. Not a trembling bride, not some blushing flower wilting beneath the weight of expectation. No, she was steel wrapped in lace, and everyone knew it.
Across the aisle, he waited. Tall, broad, shoulders like a fortress. A man built for control, for winning. There was nothing hesitant in his stance, nothing uncertain in the way he watched her move. He had claimed many things in his lifefortunes, victories, the respect of men who once called him impossiblebut this? This was different. This was final. And yet, for the first time, something inside him shifted. A slow, burning ache that had nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with her.
The guests were silent, held captive by the tension. Not the usual hush of reverence, but the quiet before a storm, when the air thickens and everything in you screams to run, but you can't. The priest droned on about love, about unity, about the divine joining of two souls, but none of it mattered. Not really. Because what stood between them wasn't scripture or tradition. It was fire. It was a dare. It was a battlefield where neither would surrender.
Her fingers twitched at her side, the only betrayal of nerves. He caught it. Of course, he did. He missed nothing. His lips curved, just slightly, just enough to make her chest tighten. He was enjoying this. The waiting. The slow, deliberate pacing of inevitability.
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