Chapter 2 – A Wedding That Isn’t Mine
PRESENT
“Yes, I do.” I whispered, and in that moment, I came back to reality.
Two words. Two damned words. Everything that had happened over the last two months, all the pain accumulated since the accident, hit me like a cold wave. Bella was still in a coma—motionless, trapped between life and death. And I… I was standing here at the altar, sealing a future I didn’t choose, stripped of my existence, my identity, and my freedom.
I wore a dress she picked, a hairstyle meant for her, and stood next to a groom who loved her. I looked up and saw him.
Gael Moretti held my hand with restrained firmness, as neutral as a businessman signing a contract. A subtle, polite smile played on his lips, but his eyes told a different story. They were hard. Tense. As if every second of this ceremony was a sentence.
And it was. For both of us.
This wasn’t a wedding. It was a sentence.
The kiss that followed was barely a touch. A brush on the cheek, close enough to my lips to fool the witnesses, the photographers, the business partners. But far enough for me to know he had no intention of pretending beyond what was necessary. It was the emptiest kiss I could imagine, and still, it sealed the farce that now bore my name.
Applause echoed. The music swelled. The ballroom doors opened, unveiling a carefully orchestrated celebration, and all I wanted was to vanish.
The reception was flawless, like something from a luxury wedding magazine—nothing I would’ve chosen, but everything she would’ve loved. Crystal chandeliers glittered like stars above us, the floral arrangements were lush and delicate, and the guests laughed, drank, and toasted as if they were living a fairytale.
I wasn’t the princess. I was the stand-in.
Every word I heard felt distant. Fake smiles. Hollow congratulations. Comments about how radiant I looked, how lucky Gael was. I nodded, smiled, raised my glass… and inside, all I wanted was to scream.
During the waltz, we danced according to protocol. His hand on my waist was just a touch, his body stiff, distant. We moved like two strangers forced to share the same story.
That’s when my father approached. He watched us as if admiring his masterpiece. He leaned toward me as we turned slowly beneath the lights of the hall and whispered:
“Don’t ruin it, Aurora. Try to be more like Bella.”
Then he stepped away with a proud smile.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Gael. He said nothing. No words of comfort, no gesture of complicity. He simply kept time, counting the seconds until the dance was over. As if he, too, wanted to pretend for as little time as possible.
Hours later, we arrived at the main suite of the city’s most elegant hotel.
The room looked like something out of a romantic fantasy: rose petals covered the bed, a bottle of champagne sat on the table, and candles flickered softly. A picture-perfect scene for a night that wouldn’t be.
When the door closed, an awkward silence filled the room.
Gael slowly removed his coat, placed his watch on the table, and then looked at me. His eyes were cold, and his voice controlled.
“Before we go any further, we should make a few things clear.”
I remained standing, barefoot, still in the dress.
“This isn’t a real marriage,” he continued. “It’s a contract. A family arrangement. We don’t need to act when we’re alone.”
I crossed my arms. I knew what he was going to say, but it still hurt.
“We don’t have to sleep in the same bed. In fact, we won’t. I’ll use the couch. I’m not interested in your private life, and I don’t expect you to be involved in mine. We’ll see each other when necessary—at dinners, meetings, and events. Nothing more.”
“That’s it?” I asked bitterly.
“That’s it,” he repeated.
I nodded. I slowly removed my earrings, letting silence fill the space between us. He turned around, took a pillow from the closet, but before he could head to the couch, his phone buzzed.
He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen, and his expression changed. Just a flicker, a slight shadow on his face, but the tension in his jaw told me something wasn’t right.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, still in the dress.
He didn’t answer.
He put his coat back on, slipped the phone into his pocket, and headed for the door.
“Gael…”
“Don’t leave this room,” he said. His tone was low but firm.
“Where are you going?” I insisted.
He looked at me, and for a moment… I thought I saw a crack in his armor. Something that resembled concern, or maybe suppressed rage.
“I have to take care of something.”
And with that, he left.
He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone. In the room of a celebration that never happened, on the night that was supposed to mark the beginning of a new chapter. But all I felt was trapped.
The bed remained untouched. The candles still flickered.
And I sat there in silence, still in the dress, staring at the door like it was an invisible barrier between the world I knew… and what was coming.
Because something told me this was just the beginning.
And it wouldn’t end well.