Chapter 4 Married without a kiss

Amara's POV

The next morning, I woke up to a message.

Lucien: You'll be picked up by 10 AM. Attached is the wedding itinerary. Jewelry fitting. Dress fitting. Ceremony in 48 hours. Do not be late.

That was it.

No "Good morning." No "How are you feeling after signing your soul away for fourteen million dollars?" Just cold instructions like I was another item on his to-do list. Grocery shopping: check. Buy new pen: check. Fake wife: check.

Still, I read the message three more times, zooming in on the list like maybe there was a secret trapdoor or fine print that said, "JK. You're free now."

There wasn't.

At exactly 10:00 AM, a sleek, black car pulled up in front of the old, crumbling building I called home. The man behind the wheel stepped out wearing all black and sunglasses, looking like someone out of a spy movie. He had the whole tall-dark-and-dangerous vibe going-looked mid-thirties, sharp jawline, too serious.

"You're Amara," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

I gave him a cautious nod, hugging my secondhand tote bag like a life vest. "And you are?"

"Reid. Mr. Lucien's driver. I'll be with you all day."

Of course his name was Reid. Why was everyone in Lucien's life so intense and straight-backed? Was it a requirement? Had I signed up for a life of people who didn't smile?

He opened the car door for me, silent and efficient. No small talk. No music. Just me and my wild thoughts, bouncing around in the plush, eerily quiet backseat of a very expensive car.

We stopped first at a jewelry store that probably cost more to enter than I'd spent on rent in five years.

Everything sparkled.

Like, blinded-by-diamonds kind of sparkled.

The manager, a tall woman named Claire, greeted me like I was royalty. "We've already pre selected a few pieces for your big day, Mrs. Miller," she said, gently leading me toward a private suite.

Mrs. Miller.

I flinched.

I wasn't used to being called anybody's anything. Let alone by a last name that felt like a skyscraper I couldn't possibly live in.

The pieces were... breathtaking.

Diamond teardrop earrings. A delicate tennis bracelet. A necklace that looked like it belonged to a queen.

"Lucien picked all these?" I asked, a little breathless.

"Yes, ma'am. Down to the millimeter. He was very precise."

Of course he was.

After jewelry came dress fitting. Apparently, he'd already shortlisted six gowns. I wasn't even allowed to choose my own fake wedding dress.

I tried them on, one by one, with Reid sitting in a corner like a ghost. No reaction. No opinions. Just occasional nods to let the assistants know which fit Lucien's taste best. I didn't even get to see him. He was orchestrating the entire thing like a faceless god with an unlimited credit limit.

Somewhere between trying on the third ballgown and sipping champagne I didn't ask for, it hit me-

Why the rush?

Why would a man who clearly had money, power, and options be in such a hurry to marry a broke, struggling, nobody like me?

It wasn't romance.

God, no.

Lucien had the emotional range of a dead lightbulb. But it felt like there was something else. Something urgent behind all this control. Like he needed this wedding done, wrapped, and buried under diamond-encrusted silence.

Reid dropped me back home before sunset. Same silence. Same unreadable face.

When I peeked into the apartment, Zina was still asleep, curled under the blankets. Her breathing was shallow again. That familiar, terrifying rhythm. I sat beside her, brushing her hair back, whispering quietly, "I'm doing this for you, okay? Just hold on a little longer. Don't make me a wife for nothing."

And for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to cry. Quietly. Behind the bathroom door. Because tomorrow... I'd be someone's wife.

To a man who didn't love me.

A man I barely knew.

A man who handed me a future in one hand and signed away my freedom with the other.

The wedding was the next evening.

Reid came to pick me after I got dressed for my fake wedding. We arrived at the venue pretty early.

No guests.

No music.

No scent of jollof rice or loud aunties in gele asking, "When are you giving us twins?"

Just me.

Lucien.

And cold, suffocating elegance.

The ceremony was held in a rose garden behind a courthouse I'm pretty sure only billionaires knew about. The officiant looked bored. I was wearing the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen-lace sleeves, open back, perfectly tailored-but I felt like a cardboard cutout in a fashion museum.

Lucien stood beside me, flawless in a charcoal suit.

He didn't even look at me.

Not once.

He just read his part of the vows with that same voice he used to order people around. Flat. Empty. Mechanical.

I repeated mine like I was reciting a script for a school play I didn't audition for.

When they said, "You may kiss the bride," he nodded once and turned away.

Wow.

No kiss.

Not even a fake peck on the cheek.

It was the most elegant rejection I'd ever experienced.

He handed me into the limo like I was some kind of delivery package. The seats were stitched in white leather, with a bottle of champagne on ice beside two flutes that remained untouched.

Lucien sat across from me, legs crossed, staring out the window like I wasn't there.

I almost laughed.

This wasn't a wedding.

This was an obvious transaction.

By the time we reached his mansion, the sun had set, but the lights outside could guide a plane home.

It was stunning.

Huge.

Borderline illegal.

The gate opened slowly, revealing a driveway lined with white rose bushes and golden lanterns. The mansion itself looked like something from a fairytale-but not the cheerful kind. The haunted castle with a tragic backstory kind.

I stepped out of the limo and nearly stumbled. The marble steps felt too clean to touch. The air smelled like pine and imported flowers.

Reid opened the door for us and Lucien stepped in first. Still silent.

I followed, one cautious heel at a time.

The inside was worse.

Worse because it was perfect.

A sweeping staircase. High ceilings. Chandeliers that looked like frozen galaxies. Everything in monochrome and silver, like it had been designed by a minimalist with a God complex.

And still-no emotion. No smile. No welcome speech like, "Hey new wife, here's the kitchen you'll never use!"

Just him, loosening his tie.

Am elderly woman stood at the foot of the staircase. She bowed as we approached her.

"She'll be staying in the left wing," he said. "My room is on the right."

That was it.

No tour. No instructions. Just a nod to a house that could fit three orphanages and a luxury spa.

I stared at him. "Are you always like this?"

He raised a brow. "Like what?"

"Cold. Distant. Void of human warmth."

He actually looked amused for half a second. "Isn't that what you signed up for?"

Touché.

I rolled my eyes and followed the woman who was already waiting for me toward the left hallway, dragging the dress with me like a tired bride in a fairytale gone wrong.

Just before I disappeared down the corridor, I turned back and said, "You could've at least faked a smile. Or offered me a drink."

He didn't answer. Just watched me like I was a mildly entertaining puzzle.

I sighed and left him there-alone, beautiful, and hollow.