Artemis's POV
I stared at the man directly in front of me, and he returned my gaze with an intensity that suggested he feared I might disappear if he looked away. His deep-set eyes, a shade of warm chestnut, held a strange tenderness—as if I were the only woman left in the world and he didn't want to blink in case I vanished.
His hair, dark and neatly styled, framed a face that could've belonged to a prince—or a threat. A crisp white tuxedo clung perfectly to his broad frame, every line tailored, every movement composed. My eyes caught on the sharp bridge of his nose, the subtle arch of his brows, the faint twitch in his strong jaw.
If I hadn't done my research, hadn't heard the rumors, I'd almost believe he was in love. But love wasn't part of this agreement. Not when our vows were written by lawyers and rehearsed like lines in a tragedy.
"Stop staring at me like I'm the main course," he whispered, a playful gleam in his eyes. "The honeymoon can wait, darling."
I stiffened. My fake smile slipped for a second, before I forced it back into place. "And you're talking like dessert."
The guests chuckled. The priest continued the ceremony with steady grace, his voice carrying across the ocean breeze. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
A heartbeat of stillness.
Then, a bright bell rang from somewhere behind us, its peal clear and sharp. The sound cut through the murmurs of the waves, echoed by the shriek of gulls overhead. Applause rippled through the crowd, the hum of approval turning into a melodic chant that rose with the crashing tide.
I plastered on the smile I'd worn at countless galas, the same one I used when hiding tears or avoiding questions about my health. A camera clicked. Then another. I lifted my hand in an automatic wave, and Isaiah wrapped an arm around my waist for the photo.
The kiss we shared was quick. Obligatory. But his lips were warm—and that startled me more than anything.
From afar, we must've looked like the perfect couple. Up close, we were strangers bound by contract and convenience. Strangers dressed as soulmates, pretending to belong to each other.
"I'll take a call. Be back soon," Isaiah murmured. His tone was casual, but I could tell he was checking out.
I nodded. The moment he disappeared behind the crowd, I felt the air thicken.
And then, like clockwork, my family appeared.
My sister strolled forward, arms crossed, a smirk curving her painted lips. "Biatch."
"You look radiant," she added, almost as an afterthought. Her voice was syrupy sweet but lined with acid. She hugged me like she was squeezing a rival.
My father's presence followed like a shadow—stern, cold, calculating. "Atlas," he said, referring to Isaiah, "you've done something I can finally be proud of."
The words landed like stones in my stomach.
I nodded. My expression unreadable. This was the performance I'd rehearsed all my life.
Then came the queen herself—my mother. Her voice always had the power to scrape against my bones.
"Don't mess this up, Artemis," she said. "The Jiangs are too refined to deal with your dramatic tendencies." She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. "It should've been my firstborn."
I felt my lungs tighten. I was used to their backhanded jabs, but today the cuts felt deeper. Because today was supposed to mean something. Even if it was fake. Even if it was arranged.
Their words stung like salt in a wound. But I was too practiced to flinch. I stood there, the good daughter, the family pawn wrapped in white lace. My fingers clutched my bouquet like it could anchor me to something real.
Until a low voice cut through the tension.
"Is everything alright here?"
Isaiah had returned. His gaze flicked between me and my family.
"Nothing important, Doc Isaiah," my mother cooed, immediately switching to her practiced charm.
"Let's go, wife." He reached for my hand. His grip was firm, grounding.
And for the first time since this morning, I saw him smile.
Not his signature smirk. Not his charming playboy grin.
A real smile—soft, subtle, and inexplicably kind.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I nodded, but something in my chest fluttered, unfamiliar and unwanted. A reaction I hadn't expected. I had been braced for dominance, control, pretense. But this? This quiet gentleness was something else entirely.
He was doing something dangerous. He was making me feel safe.
As we moved toward the reception crowd, hands still linked, I couldn't help but wonder how long I could keep my walls up. Or if he was already inside them.
A tug at my arm broke my thoughts. My younger sister.
"You look gorgeous, sis," she whispered. "He seems into you… Can't wait for little mini-you's." She winked before disappearing again.
She was the only one who still felt like family. The only one who looked at me and saw me—not the girl they wanted me to be.
Just then, Isaiah leaned closer and whispered, "My family wants to speak to you. Alone."
Panic flared in my chest. I imagined another set of cold expectations, veiled critiques and strategic smiles.
I looked up at him. He was still smiling. Still holding my hand like I was something to be protected.
"I'll stay close," he added, softer this time.
God help me, I wasn't ready for any of this. I wasn't ready for him.
And the war hadn't even begun.
The reception was a blur of string lights, clinking glasses, and half-sincere congratulations. A chandelier of glass petals hung above us like a frozen storm, glinting each time someone snapped a photo. Isaiah and I made our rounds, hands joined, the smiles glued to our faces starting to crack around the edges.
At the cake-cutting, he let me take the first slice.
"Ladies first," he said simply, his voice low.
I froze for a moment. The gesture was nothing. But it felt like something.
Everything about him confused me. I had studied his file, memorized his record, and dissected his interviews. I knew his career as a trauma surgeon, his philanthropic ventures, his polished facade.
But I didn't know this.
This calm, kind man who didn't look at me like a trophy or a threat. This man who kept offering me small kindnesses as if trying to feed a starved creature without scaring it off.
The worst part was that I wanted to believe it. I wanted to fall into that softness, to rest just a little, to trust someone. But trust wasn't a luxury I had. Not anymore.
Not after the hospital room in Shanghai. Not after the diagnosis. Not after watching everyone I loved turn their backs one by one.
So I smiled. I ate the cake. I played my part.
But the moment I found a quiet corner, away from the cameras, I let out a long, slow breath. My fingers trembled. The sea breeze no longer felt refreshing—it scraped against my skin like sandpaper.
Then he appeared beside me again.
"Too much?" Isaiah asked, his voice warm.
I nodded, too tired to lie.
He didn't press me for words. He just stood there, offering me silence like a gift.
I closed my eyes.
And for a moment—just one moment—it didn't feel so bad.
Maybe the war could wait until morning.
The ballroom shimmered.
Golden light spilled from the crystal chandeliers above, reflecting off champagne flutes and the pearls sewn into my gown. Everything smelled of roses—too sweet, too staged. It reminded me of funerals more than weddings.
Laughter echoed from the crowd, blending with the slow strains of a classical waltz. The kind of song that expected grace. The kind that demanded closeness.
I didn't want either.
The wedding coordinator gestured discreetly from the side of the dance floor. "Mr. and Mrs. Jiang," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your first dance."
I felt my spine straighten on instinct. Smile, nod, move.
Isaiah stepped forward and extended his hand.
His palm was warm.
Steady.
I hesitated a beat too long before placing mine in his. The moment our skin touched, the orchestra swelled. People clapped. A thousand eyes watched us. A thousand expectations pressed against my ribcage like a corset made of stone.
He drew me in slowly, hand settling lightly against my back. My other hand went to his shoulder, fingers stiff. I kept a careful distance, leaving enough space for propriety. He didn't try to close it.
"Relax," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "I won't bite. Not here."
"Is that supposed to comfort me?" I asked, keeping my eyes fixed over his shoulder.
He chuckled softly. "Only if you want it to."
We began to move in a slow circle, guided more by tradition than rhythm. His steps were smooth, practiced. Mine were mechanical. Every pivot, every glide—it was all muscle memory from debutante galas and etiquette classes.
But this felt different.
Because this wasn't pretend. This was real. My name had changed. My future had changed.
And the man leading me across this marble floor wasn't a suitor or a stranger on my arm for an event. He was my husband.
Husband.
The word tasted foreign in my mind, like a bitter root I hadn't yet swallowed.
"You're quiet," he said after a moment.
"I didn't realize this came with conversation," I replied, forcing a tight smile.
"It doesn't," he said easily. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
I looked up, startled by the gentleness in his tone.
His eyes held mine—not possessive, not playful like earlier at the altar. Just… calm. Steady. Curious, in a way that made me feel stripped and seen all at once.
I didn't like it.
"I'm fine," I said, because it was the default answer. The rehearsed one. "The dress is heavy. That's all."
Isaiah's gaze flicked down to the gown, then back to my face. "It is beautiful," he said. "But it doesn't look like you."
I blinked. "What does that mean?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You wore armor to the altar. Lace-forged, pearl-stitched armor. You didn't choose it. Someone did for you. And you didn't argue."
"I don't argue when it's pointless," I said, more sharply than I meant to.
He didn't flinch. Didn't bristle. Just nodded.
"That's fair," he said. "But I'd still like to know what you would've worn. If it had been your choice."
I hated that the question made something flicker inside me. That it pulled a picture from a drawer in my mind I hadn't opened in years: soft cream silk, no veil, bare feet on grass, natural light.
"I wouldn't have worn white," I said softly, surprising myself.
He smiled—not his smirk, not the crowd-pleasing grin. This one was smaller. Real. "Black gown? Bold."
"No," I said. "Ivory. With silver thread."
He said nothing, but something in his expression shifted, like he was tucking that answer away carefully.
We circled again. Slower now. The space between us had lessened by half an inch.
"I thought you were a playboy," I murmured. "Smooth, sharp, silver-tongued."
"I am," he replied. "I just know when to shut up."
That pulled a real sound from me—somewhere between a scoff and a breath of laughter.
The dance floor faded. The room dulled. The eyes watching blurred into background noise. For one moment, there was just Isaiah's hand on my back. My hand on his chest. Our bodies moving in time to a song I couldn't name.
He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing my ear.
"You don't have to pretend with me tonight."
I tensed. His words landed in my chest like a dropped stone.
He didn't press. Didn't elaborate. Just kept moving, as if he hadn't said something that cracked the edges of my armor.
"I'm not pretending," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
He didn't argue. Just said, "Alright."
I hated that. Hated that he didn't fight back. That he wasn't trying to break me open.
Because it made me wonder what I'd do if he actually managed it.
"You say things like that," I whispered, "and it makes me think you want something."
"I do," he said. "I want you to breathe."
I looked up, startled. He wasn't being clever. His eyes were soft, almost sad.
He wasn't just performing.
He meant it.
God, what are you doing to me?
The song came to a close. The room erupted in applause. We stepped apart—but his hand lingered at my waist for a breath longer than necessary.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" I asked.
"For not running."
I couldn't speak. My throat was thick with everything I hadn't said.
We returned to the table, to the cameras, to the curated chaos of family politics and champagne toasts—but something had shifted.
Something small. Invisible. Dangerous.
And it had nothing to do with love.
It had to do with the terrifying possibility that this stranger—my husband—might be the only one in the room who wasn't trying to own me.