The morning of my wedding felt unreal, like I had stepped into someone else's life, someone else's story—but of course it felt like that, this is one written entirely without my permission.
The church was massive, ancient, and breathtaking. Sunlight streamed through towering stained glass windows, throwing fragments of color across polished marble floors. Golden arches soared above us, every detail curated to impress, to overwhelm, to signal that this union was about power, legacy, and influence—not love.
I took a deep breath, clutching my bouquet of white roses. The scent was calming, but my chest was tight. Every step toward the altar made the weight of my parents' expectations heavier. My mother brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear, whispering, "You look beautiful, darling."
"Thanks, Mom," I murmured, forcing a smile.
She looked so small next to my father, who stood behind her like a shadow, rigid, silent. His eyes didn't soften. They never did.
I caught a glimpse of the guests settling into their seats. Every one of them represented some network, some alliance, some interest in the Miller-Conner deal. They didn't know me. They didn't know Alex. All they knew was that this marriage made sense on paper.
And then I saw him.
Alex Conner, standing at the altar, immaculately tailored suit, sharp jawline, striking brown eyes. Even now, three days later, he still had that air of control—unshakable, unreadable, magnetic. I felt my stomach tighten despite every warning I had ever given myself about him.
He caught my eye for just a moment and raised one eyebrow—like he remembered everything about me from our childhood, and yet none of it mattered anymore.
The organ began to play, and I started walking. He remained perfectly still, watching as I approached. His parents and siblings sat in the front row, his father's gaze cutting through me like a silent blade, and I refused to flinch.
"Beautiful," Alex murmured as I reached the altar. Removing the hood of the cape I used instead of a veil. His tone wasn't warm. It was observant, calculating.
"Thank you," I replied, keeping my voice even.
The priest began the ceremony, his voice echoing against the stone walls. I tried to focus on the words, but all I could think about was him—his presence, his history with me, the fact that this marriage was business masquerading as ceremony.
"Do you, Hera Miller, take Alex Conner to be your lawful husband, to honor and respect him, forsaking all others…?"
I almost laughed at the words. Forsaking all others. Like I had a choice in any of this.
"I do," I said, firm. My voice echoed through the vast church. I refused to waver.
"Do you, Alex Conner, take Hera Miller…"
"I do," he said evenly, without inflection, without warmth, but clear enough that the words landed.
The priest nodded, then smiled faintly. "You may now kiss the bride."
My breath hitches slightly. But I quickly regained control. This is just a formality.
Alex leaned forward. His eyes locked with mine, sharp and unreadable. I could feel the faintest warmth in his gaze, but I didn't let it reach me. The kiss was brief, ceremonial, and I pulled back first. My chest still fluttered, and I cursed myself for it.
The applause echoed like a distant storm. We walked back down the aisle together—arms brushing lightly—shoulder to shoulder in perfect public unity.
⸻
The reception was another layer of performance. The ballroom was magnificent—white roses, crystal chandeliers, tables perfectly arranged with silver cutlery, and candles flickering softly across the polished floors. Music filled the room, elegant and grand, while guests moved like pieces in a well-orchestrated game.
Alex stayed close, nodding politely to well-wishers, shaking hands with those who mattered, keeping the perfect balance between charm and distance.
"Congratulations," a senator whispered as he shook my hand. "Your families are quite… influential."
Of all the things he could say. Typical.
I smiled faintly. "Thank you."
Behind me, I could see Alex's siblings observing everything like hawks. Luca leaned against a pillar, smirking. Matteo, ever the analyst, studied my posture and expression. Sofia's gaze met mine briefly—a faint, approving nod—then she returned to her calculations about the room.
Alex leaned toward me at one point, voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Don't let them overwhelm you," he murmured.
"Who, exactly?" I asked dryly.
He smirked. "All of them. Your parents. Mine. Everyone pretending this is about us."
"Good advice," I replied, straightening my spine.
⸻
When it came time for the toasts, I found myself standing beside him at the head table. His father's gaze was sharp, unwavering, and I stiffened under it, reminded why I could never yield to anyone like my mother had. His mother whispered a small suggestion into his ear during the toast, and he nodded once, subtly.
I could see the weight of expectation in the room—each glance, each subtle touch choreographed to maintain appearances. I smiled, lifted my glass, and returned polite nods. Every interaction felt like a battle of restraint.
"Beautifully done," Alex said quietly during the first dance.
"Thanks," I murmured, ignoring the tiny tremor in my chest. "You're not half bad at pretending either."
He smirked faintly, gaze sharp. "Pretending is my specialty."
Of course it is.
We danced just enough to satisfy the guests, then stepped aside, giving each other the space we had agreed upon in the museum. I caught glimpses of him talking quietly with his father, Luca whispering to Matteo, Sofia observing. Everything was strategic. Everything had a purpose.
⸻
Later, I slipped out to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. The city sprawled beneath me, glittering endlessly—a reminder that I belonged to none of this. Alex joined me silently, leaning against the railing.
"Beautiful night," he said, voice low.
"Yes," I replied, neutral, careful.
"The day went smoothly. Your parents seemed satisfied," he added, glancing at me.
"And yours?"
"Never satisfied," he said with a faint smirk. "But that's nothing new."
Real.
We were silent for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the city and the laughter drifting up from the reception.
"So," he said finally, "we did it. Married. Publicly united. Privately…" He left the sentence hanging, as though he expected me to finish it.
I met his gaze evenly. "Privately still out of each other's way."
"Agreed," he said, smirk fading just slightly. "Now let's go home."
And even though this marriage was meant to be business, I couldn't help thinking—this man, who infuriated me more than anyone, might be the one obstacle I would never fully control.
———
The drive from the church to the Conner mansion was silent, the kind of silence heavy with expectation and unsaid words. Alex didn't speak, and neither did I. Not that we needed to. The air between us carried the weight of the ceremony, the whispers of guests, the unrelenting glare of family and cameras.
The mansion loomed as we approached—marble, iron gates, tall columns. Guards lined the driveway, bowing slightly as we passed. Inside, the staff moved like clockwork: discreet but efficient, opening doors, offering champagne, guiding us through halls that smelled faintly of old wood polish and something expensive I couldn't identify. Everything about this place screamed control.
"Welcome home, sir. Welcome, madam," a butler said politely, gesturing toward the main hall.
I nodded, voice steady. "Thank you."
Alex didn't acknowledge anyone; he never did in these moments. His presence alone made the staff step lightly, their eyes wary but respectful.
We were led through the grand halls, past portraits of men who looked as intimidating as my husband. He didn't glance at them. I did.
"This way," a maid murmured, and I realized we were being shown to our rooms.
Alex paused at the threshold of the hallway leading to his private quarters. He turned slightly to me. "We should establish… boundaries," he said.
His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a reminder that, despite the ceremony, he didn't intend to overstep.
I raised an eyebrow. "Boundaries?"
He gave a faint smirk, just enough to remind me of the boy who had once thrown rocks at me in the garden.
"Separate rooms. No surprises. No confusion. We're married, yes—but this doesn't mean I'll invade your space. You won't invade mine. Simple."
I considered him carefully, my heels clicking softly against the marble. "Agreed," I said. "Separate rooms. Clear rules. Don't mistake compliance for weakness."
"Never," he replied smoothly.
The moment hung between us—a pause heavy with unspoken thoughts. I could feel his gaze on me, assessing, lingering a second longer than it should. His eyes met mine, sharp and piercing, and I didn't look away.
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the two of us.
Then he stepped aside, letting me move past him toward my room. I walked slowly, heels echoing, heart still thudding. I felt him following me with his eyes until the door closed behind me.
I leaned against the door, exhaling slowly.
Married. Separate rooms. Boundaries drawn.
And yet… I knew we had already broken one rule: the rule of indifference.
Our gazes had lingered a little too long. The faint tension in the air promised that neither of us would ignore the other so easily.
I was determined not to give in.
But a part of me—the reckless, curious part—wondered just how long we could maintain these boundaries before the rest of this "business marriage" began to unravel.