Chapter 5 THE WEDDING

The morning of her wedding, Ivy woke to find her mother sitting beside her bed.

"Mom?" Ivy sat up, disoriented. Catherine looked pale but determined, dressed in a beautiful blue dress that hung loosely on her thin frame. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the hospital-"

"I got permission for a day pass." Catherine's hand found Ivy's, squeezing weakly. "Did you really think I'd miss my daughter's wedding?"

Tears burned Ivy's eyes. "You should be resting. The treatment-"

"Can wait one day." Catherine's expression was fierce despite her frailty. "Now get up. We have a bride to prepare."

The next hours passed in a surreal blur. The stylist arrived with a team-hair, makeup, nails. Lydia appeared with the dress, already pressed and perfect. Margot coordinated everything with military precision. And through it all, Catherine sat nearby, watching with tears in her eyes.

"You're so beautiful," her mother whispered as Ivy stood in the finished dress, her hair swept up in an elegant chignon, makeup natural but flawless. "You look just like I did on my wedding day."

"Mom, don't-" Ivy's voice cracked.

"Let me say this." Catherine stood, moving slowly to take Ivy's hands. "I know this marriage isn't what you imagined. I know it started as a transaction. But sweetheart, I've watched Damien with you these last two weeks. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's noticing. The way he positioned his body between you and that awful nephew. The way he talks to your doctors about my treatment like it's his personal mission to save me." She smiled sadly. "That's not a man protecting an investment. That's a man who cares, whether he admits it or not."

"He's just thorough," Ivy said. "It's his nature."

"Maybe." Catherine's eyes held knowing wisdom. "Or maybe he's falling for you as hard as you're falling for him."

"I'm not-" Ivy stopped. Was she? Was she falling for Damien Blackwood, the man who'd bought her presence in his life, who claimed to feel nothing, who treated her like a particularly interesting business acquisition?

Yes, whispered a traitorous voice in her head. You are.

"Oh, sweetheart." Catherine pulled her into a careful hug. "Just... be careful with your heart. And his. I think he's more fragile than he appears."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Margot entered, all efficiency. "The cars are here. It's time."

---

The Plaza ballroom had been transformed into an elegant winter wonderland-all white roses, crystal, and soft candlelight. Two hundred guests filled the chairs, Manhattan's elite dressed in their finest, whispering behind their programs. Ivy recognized faces from magazines-CEOs, politicians, celebrities, old money families who probably thought she was a social-climbing nobody.

Let them think it. In twelve months, she'd be gone with her money, and they could return to their insular world.

The music changed. The procession began. Ivy stood at the entrance with her mother beside her-Catherine had insisted on walking her down the aisle, IV pole hidden by the flowing dress, determination keeping her upright.

And then Ivy saw Damien.

He stood at the altar in a custom black tuxedo, devastatingly handsome, his dark hair perfect, his gray eyes locked on her with an intensity that stole her breath. Beside him stood his best man-Marcus, surprisingly, which must have been a strategic choice to show there was no bad blood despite the Serena situation.

But Ivy barely noticed Marcus. All she could see was Damien, watching her approach like she was the only person in the room.

The walk down the aisle felt eternal. Every step brought her closer to the man she was binding herself to legally, financially, publicly. Every step was a choice-she could still run, still refuse, still walk away from this beautiful lie.

But she didn't. She kept walking, her mother's thin hand in hers, until they reached the altar.

The officiant-a dignified older man who probably married Manhattan's elite regularly-smiled at them. "Who gives this woman to be married?"

"I do," Catherine said, her voice surprisingly strong. She kissed Ivy's cheek, whispered "Be brave," and was helped to her seat in the front row by a waiting nurse.

Ivy faced Damien. His hands were warm as they took hers, steady and solid. Up close, she could see tension around his eyes, a tightness in his jaw that suggested this was affecting him more than he'd admit.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, so quietly only she could hear.

"You're not bad yourself," Ivy whispered back, and saw his lips twitch.

The ceremony began. Traditional vows, carefully chosen to sound romantic but not too personal. Ivy repeated the words, promising to love and honor and cherish, feeling like a fraud. Damien's responses were smooth, practiced, perfect lies delivered with absolute conviction.

Then came the rings. Damien slid a platinum band onto her finger, the diamonds catching the light. When it was Ivy's turn, her hands shook slightly as she placed a matching band on his. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and for a moment their eyes locked, something unspoken passing between them.

"By the power vested in me by the State of New York," the officiant said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Damien hesitated for just a second. Then his hand cupped her face, gentle despite the calluses on his palms, and he leaned in.

The kiss was supposed to be chaste. A brief press of lips, appropriate for public consumption. But the moment Damien's mouth touched hers, something ignited.

He tasted like mint and scotch and dangerous promises. His lips were firm, skilled, moving against hers with a hunger that belied every cold word he'd ever spoken. Ivy's hands came up instinctively, gripping his jacket, and she kissed him back with five years of loneliness and longing and desperate need to be seen.

The kiss deepened. Damien's hand slid to her nape, his fingers threading through her carefully styled hair. The crowd faded. The cameras faded. Everything faded except the heat of his mouth, the strength of his body, the way he kissed her like he was claiming her for real.

Applause finally broke through the haze. Damien pulled back, his breathing slightly uneven, his eyes dark with something that looked like shock. Ivy stared at him, her lips swollen, her heart racing.

That wasn't fake. That wasn't for the cameras. That was real.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the officiant announced, "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Damien Blackwood."

The reception was a carefully choreographed performance.

Ivy and Damien stood in the receiving line, greeting guests with practiced smiles. Society matrons air-kissed her while assessing her like a prize horse. Men shook Damien's hand with knowing looks, as if they'd all made similarly strategic marriages. The whole thing felt like being on display, a specimen to be judged.

"Smile," Damien murmured as an elderly woman in diamonds approached. "That's Eleanor Ashford. Her foundation funds half the arts programs in the city."

Ivy smiled. She made small talk. She played her part perfectly. But her mind kept returning to that kiss, to the heat that had flared between them, to the shocked look in Damien's eyes.

The first dance was torture of a different kind. Damien's hand on her waist, their bodies close, swaying to some romantic ballad while everyone watched. He was a good dancer, smooth and confident, leading her effortlessly across the floor.

"You're tense," he said quietly.

"I'm performing for two hundred strangers who think I'm a gold digger."

"Most of them married for money too. They're just being hypocritical." His hand tightened on her waist. "Relax, Ivy. We're selling the fairy tale, remember?"

"Is that what that kiss was?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "Selling the fairy tale?"

Damien's expression went carefully blank. "What else would it be?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

The music swelled. Damien spun her, pulling her back against him, his mouth by her ear. "Don't read into things that don't exist. It was a kiss. Required by the ceremony. That's all."

But his voice was rough, and his body was tense against hers, and Ivy knew with absolute certainty that he was lying.

The song ended. They were immediately separated by guests wanting to congratulate them, and Ivy lost sight of Damien in the crowd. She was making conversation with someone's wife about charity work when a familiar voice made her freeze.

"Well, well. The blushing bride."

Ivy turned slowly. Serena Winters stood before her in a red dress that was just slightly too provocative for a wedding, her platinum hair swept up, her blue eyes cold and assessing. She was stunning in that sharp, dangerous way-perfect bone structure, perfect body, perfectly aware of the power her beauty gave her.

"Serena," Ivy said evenly. "I didn't see you on the guest list."

"Marcus was invited. I came as his plus-one." Serena smiled, all teeth. "After all, Marcus and Damien have moved past old grievances. Water under the bridge."

The same Marcus who'd stolen Damien's fiancée and was now standing across the room talking business. Strategic reconciliation, obviously, but still cruel.

"How generous of Damien," Ivy said.

"He's good at forgiveness when it serves his purposes." Serena's eyes raked over Ivy dismissively. "I have to say, you're not what I expected. I thought Damien would choose someone with more... pedigree. But I suppose when you're desperate to fulfill a will requirement, you take what you can get."

"Careful," Ivy said softly. "Your jealousy is showing."

Serena's smile sharpened. "Jealous? Of you? Darling, Damien and I have history. Real history. What you have is a contract and a pregnancy that may or may not be his."

Ivy's blood turned to ice. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, did you think your little secret was safe?" Serena leaned in, her voice dropping. "Carter's been talking. To anyone who'll listen. About how you slept with him, then trapped his uncle into marriage. It's the talk of the country club circuit."

"Carter is lying-"

"Is he?" Serena's eyes glittered with malice. "Because the timeline is very interesting. You were working the Morrison party three weeks before the engagement announcement. Carter was there. You left together. Security footage confirms it. Then suddenly you're pregnant and engaged to Damien. Quite the coincidence."

Before Ivy could respond, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Damien appeared at her side, his presence radiating barely controlled fury.

"Serena," he said coldly. "I don't recall inviting you."

"Marcus invited me. We're family now, after all." Serena's smile was poison. "I was just congratulating your lovely bride. Such a beautiful ceremony."

"Then you've congratulated her. Leave."

"Leave?" Serena's laugh was brittle. "This is a party, Damien. I'm a guest."

"No, you're a disruption." Damien's voice dropped to something lethal. "And you have sixty seconds to walk out of here before security removes you. Starting now."

For a moment, Serena looked genuinely shocked. Then fury twisted her perfect features. "You're going to regret this, Damien. When this little gold digger's lies catch up with you, when you realize you've thrown away everything for a fraud, you'll come crawling back. And I won't be there."

"Good," Damien said flatly. "Forty-five seconds."

Serena glared at them both, then spun on her designer heels and stalked toward the exit. Marcus tried to intercept her, but she brushed past him, disappearing into the hallway. The guests around them pretended they hadn't witnessed the scene, but the whispers had already started.

Damien's arm tightened around Ivy's waist. "Are you alright?"

"She knows," Ivy said quietly. "About Carter. About the timeline. She's going to tell everyone."

"Let her try." Damien's jaw was granite. "I've already ensured Carter signed an NDA with teeth. If he's been talking, he's violated it. My lawyers will crush him."

"And what about Serena? What about the questions?"

"Then we answer them." Damien turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. "Together. The story doesn't change, Ivy. You're my wife. This is my child. Anyone who says otherwise can deal with me."

The fierce protectiveness in his voice made something warm bloom in Ivy's chest. She searched his face, looking for truth beneath the mask. "Why do you keep defending me? Why do you care what they say?"

"Because-" Damien stopped, something complicated flickering across his face. "Because you're mine now. That means something."

"Does it?" Ivy stepped closer, emboldened by champagne and exhaustion and the memory of their kiss. "Or am I just another acquisition? Another asset to protect?"

"Ivy-"

"No, I want to know." She looked up at him, this man she'd married, this stranger who kissed her like he meant it and defended her like she mattered. "Do I mean anything to you beyond the contract? Or am I just playing a part in your carefully constructed life?"

Damien stared at her, and for a long moment, she thought he might actually tell her the truth. But then the shutters came down, the mask returned, and his voice was cool when he spoke.

"We should return to our guests. People are watching."

He walked away, leaving Ivy alone with her champagne and her confused heart, wondering how she'd become so tangled up in feelings for a man who claimed to have none.

---

The reception continued for hours. Toasts were made-Marcus gave a smooth speech about new beginnings, carefully avoiding mention of his own complicated history with Damien. The wedding cake was cut, pictures were taken, dances were danced. Ivy smiled until her face hurt, made small talk until her voice grew hoarse, and tried not to think about how, in a few hours, she'd be expected to spend the night in Damien's penthouse as his wife.

They hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements beyond the initial contract terms-separate rooms, separate lives. But everyone would expect them to share a bed on their wedding night. The optics of anything else would raise questions.

Finally, mercifully, the last guests departed. Ivy stood in the empty ballroom, her feet aching in her designer heels, her carefully styled hair coming loose from its pins. The fairy tale was over. Reality awaited.

Damien appeared beside her, his bow tie loosened, his jacket gone, looking rumpled and human for the first time all day. "Ready to go home?"

Home. The penthouse. His space that she now occupied through legal contract. "As ready as I'll ever be."

The car ride was silent. Ivy stared out the window at Manhattan blurring past, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. Damien made calls, handling business even on his wedding night, because apparently his empire never slept.

They arrived at the building, rode the elevator in tense silence, and entered the penthouse. It felt different now, somehow. More permanent. This was her home for the next twelve months. This was her life.

"I'm going to change," Ivy said, heading toward her wing.

"Ivy." Damien's voice stopped her. She turned. He stood backlit by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled behind him, looking powerful and lonely and impossibly complicated. "Today was... successful. You played your part well."

"So did you." She waited, hoping he'd say more, something real beneath the performance.

But Damien just nodded. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we fly to the Maldives."

Ivy blinked. "What?"

"Our honeymoon. It's expected. I've cleared my schedule for a week."

"You never mentioned a honeymoon-"

"It's in the contract. Page twenty-three, subsection B." His voice was clinical. "Public appearances include the wedding and a suitable honeymoon to establish the marriage as legitimate. I've rented a private villa. We leave at nine a.m."

"A week alone with you in paradise," Ivy said flatly. "Sounds romantic."

"It's not meant to be romantic. It's meant to be convincing." Damien loosened his tie further. "Pack light. And Ivy?" He met her eyes. "Whatever happened today-the kiss, the feelings you think you're developing-leave them in New York. When we're alone in the Maldives, we're back to the contract. Clear boundaries. No complications."

"Of course," Ivy said, her throat tight. "Wouldn't want complications."

She fled to her room before he could see the tears burning her eyes. She'd married a man who kissed her like she was oxygen and then reminded her it meant nothing. Who defended her fiercely and then treated her like a business obligation. Who looked at her sometimes like he wanted to devour her and other times like she was just another item on his to-do list.

Ivy stripped off the wedding dress, hanging it carefully in the closet where it would probably never be worn again. She stood in front of the mirror in her lingerie-the expensive, beautiful set Lydia had insisted on, saying even a contract bride should feel special on her wedding night.

But she didn't feel special. She felt confused and lonely and utterly trapped by her own choices.

A week alone with Damien in paradise. It should have been a dream. Instead, it felt like a test-one she was terrified of failing.