Marriage Offered, Love Declined: Part 8
Part 8
I don’t remember standing. I don’t remember taking Marley’s arm or following the music cues. One minute, I’m in a side room, gasping for breath, trying to piece myself back together. The next, I’m stepping onto the aisle, my fingers gripping my bouquet like a lifeline.
The doors open.
Everyone stands. A hundred pairs of eyes turn to me, but I barely register them.
I only see him.
Sebastian stands at the altar, watching me. His suit is perfectly tailored, his posture relaxed—except for his jaw. It’s tight, his mouth a firm line, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The weight of his gaze is crushing. Like he owns this moment. Like he owns me.
I take a step. Then another. My feet move on instinct, but my mind screams at me to turn around.
He blackmailed me. Threatened me. And yet, standing here, looking at him—I can still feel what he did to me last night. His mouth on mine. His hand between my thighs. The way I came apart for him, even when I didn’t want to.
Heat coils in my stomach, tangled with rage, humiliation, and something far worse—want.
I dig my nails into the bouquet stems, clinging to anger because it’s the only thing keeping me from unravelling. Not nerves. Not fear. Anger. Because if I let myself feel anything else, I might not make it down this aisle.
Sebastian waits for me at the altar, looking every bit the composed, powerful man he always is. The man who just threatened to destroy me if I didn’t show up.
He’s a bully. A sinfully handsome bully, but a bully all the same.
The tux fits him too well—crisp and elegant, a stark contrast to the rot beneath.
His eyes meet mine.
My breath catches.
I almost stumble, but my father’s steady grip keeps me upright.
Sebastian watches me with an intensity that makes my pulse skitter, like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at. For a second—one weak, stupid second—I almost forget.
Almost.
But then I remember exactly what he said on the phone.
Marry me now, or suffer the consequences.
The softness I thought I saw in his gaze is a lie.
We reach the altar.
My father’s fingers tighten around mine before he turns to Sebastian, searching his face for something. Approval? Reassurance? The lie that I’ll be happy?
Whatever it is, he must find it. Because he exhales, nods once, then presses a kiss to my forehead. That’s one small silver lining; my father has no idea what I’ve given up, how much this is costing me.
He places my hand in Sebastian’s. His grip is firm. Too firm. Locking me in place. Claiming.
I swallow hard, refusing to let my fingers tremble in his grasp.
The ceremony begins, but the words barely register.
Sebastian’s voice is steady, deliberate as he repeats the vows. "I, Sebastian Winters, take you, Olivia Monroe, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse…"
When it’s my turn, my voice shakes just slightly, but I get through it. "I, Olivia Monroe, take you, Sebastian Winters, to be my husband… for better or for worse…"
For worse.
Because this isn’t marriage. This is a contract. A cage. A price I’ve paid for the people I love.
The ring slides onto my finger. A small, delicate thing. Deceptively light, given how heavy it feels.
I’m his now.
There’s no turning back.
Sebastian lifts my veil.
The chapel fades. The people disappear.
All I see is him.
His hands frame my face, his fingers warm against my skin. And then his mouth is on mine—hot, firm, claiming.
It’s over in seconds. Too fast. Too fleeting.
I don’t want more.
I won’t want more.
But my body doesn’t seem to get the message.
The crowd erupts in cheers, but I barely hear them over the pounding in my ears.
Sebastian steps back, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Like he knows exactly what’s going through my head.
I dig my nails into my palms and remind myself—that’s impossible.
***
The reception is a blur of fake smiles and flashing cameras. I barely taste the food. I ignore the speeches, grateful Shaun decided not to come and cause a scene. I endure the well-wishers. I feel Sebastian watching me. I pretend not to notice.
And then, the music shifts.
I don’t even remember picking a song for our first dance, but as the first notes of At Last by Etta James fill the room, something tightens in my chest.
Sebastian steps in front of me, holding out a hand. His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes—his eyes tell me he’s enjoying this moment.
"Time to dance, Mrs. Winters."
A shiver ghosts down my spine at the way that sounds. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s real. I don’t hesitate. That would give him too much satisfaction. I let him take my hand because I have to. Not because I want to. But the moment his fingers lace through mine, warmth spreads up my arm.
The moment his other hand finds the small of my back, pressing just enough to guide me, my pulse skitters.
We start to move.
Sebastian leads effortlessly, his grip firm, confident—dominant. "You’re tense," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
"I wonder why," I bite back.
His lips tilt in a smirk. "You need to relax."
Before I can snap at him, he pulls me closer.
Too close.
My breath hitches.
I can feel everything—the heat of his body, the strength in his hold, the slow, measured way he moves, each step deliberate, like he’s doing this on purpose. Like he wants me to forget what he did to get me here. Like he wants me to focus on something else entirely.
His fingers trace slow, lazy circles against my back, and it’s maddening. A game of control, of power. And my body—traitorous, weak, infuriating—reacts.
My skin flushes. My breath goes shallow. My pulse pounds between my ribs.
I hate that he notices.
"You’re not as unaffected as you want to be," he murmurs, his voice pure sin.
I should shove him away.
Instead, my fingers tighten against his shoulder.
His mouth dips to my ear, the heat of his breath sending shivers through me. "Do you want to know what I’m thinking?"
"No," I lie.
He exhales a quiet laugh, the sound low, intimate. Like we’re alone. Like no one else is watching.
"I’m thinking," he continues, "that I could have you trembling in my hands in less than a minute."
A sharp pulse of heat pools low in my stomach.
I hate him.
But I hate even more that I believe him.
Sebastian shifts, just slightly, and his thigh presses between mine as we move.
My breath stutters.
"One month," he murmurs, his lips so close to my skin that I can feel the promise there.
A warning.
A countdown.
I swallow hard, knowing exactly what he means.
He gave me one month before he came to claim me. Before I had to give myself to him.
But the way he’s looking at me right now—like he already has me right where he wants me—makes me wonder if I’ll last that long.
The music swells. The song should be over.
But we’re still moving.
Still too close.
Still caught in this dangerous, suffocating tension that neither of us seems willing to break.
I finally force myself to look up.
Sebastian’s dark, unreadable gaze locks onto mine.
"Hate me if you need to," he says, low and steady, his hand pressing just a little firmer against my back. “But you’re still mine.”
The song fades.
I rip myself away, stepping back so fast I almost trip.
I hate him.
I hate this.
I hate the way my body doesn’t seem to agree.
And most of all?
I hate that this night isn’t over.
I don’t even get a moment to breathe before the next part of the performance begins.
A round of applause ripples through the room, and guests flood the dance floor, eager to join in. The intimacy of the moment shatters, replaced by laughter, swirling gowns, clinking glasses. I step back, my heart still pounding, but Sebastian’s eyes remain locked on mine.
The reception moves on without me.
I go through the motions, smiling when I should, nodding at every last congratulations I hear. I pick at my dessert while Sebastian watches me with thinly veiled irritation, but I don’t care.
The flashes of cameras catch every forced smile, every touch, every glance. A perfectly crafted illusion. A perfect lie.
I’m torn between wanting it all to come to an end and dreading the moment it will. And then, too soon, reality slams into me with crushing finality. It’s time to say goodbye.
My mother clutches me tightly, her perfume wrapping around me in a familiar, comforting embrace. “We love you, sweetheart. Have a wonderful time.”
"I love you, too." My voice wavers as I pull back, blinking fast.
I hug my father next, feeling the solid warmth of him, the quiet strength that’s always steadied me. He doesn’t say much, just presses a kiss to my forehead.
It’s too much.
Too final.
I didn’t think this part would be so hard.
Sebastian stands a few feet away, watching me. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his gaze—something that one could mistake for softness but I won’t. He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t interfere. He just… waits.
And when I finally turn to him, he steps forward, extending his arm.
"Olivia," he says, his voice lower, quieter than usual. "It’s time to go."
I stare at his outstretched arm like it might burn me.
Everything in me wants to reject this moment, to pull back, to run. But I don’t. Because I can’t. Because my parents are watching, and I’ve already made my choice. And I chose them.
Slowly, I loop my arm through his, my fingers barely brushing his sleeve.
Sebastian studies me, like he’s waiting for something—maybe a reaction, maybe permission. Then, just as I convince myself he won’t say anything else, he leans in slightly, his voice a husky murmur only I can hear.
"Just wait until you see what I’ve got in store for you, Mrs Wylder."
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it.
His smirk is slow, deliberate.
I force my expression into something neutral, masking the swirl of emotions inside me, and let him guide me through the crowd.
Outside, a sleek black car is waiting. The driver opens the door.
This is it.
I glance back one last time—at my mother dabbing at her eyes, at my father standing tall beside her, at the life I just walked away from.
Then Sebastian helps me into the car, slides in beside me, and the door closes with a soft, decisive click.
The honeymoon begins.
And so does whatever comes next.