Wife On Paper

The flowers wilted before noon.

It was supposed to be the wedding of the year two billion-dollar families joining dynasties, sealing headlines, crushing the stock market with champagne and silk. Cameras rolled outside Vale Estate. Hundreds of handpicked guests drank beneath golden chandeliers, unaware that the bride had vanished three hours ago.

Seraphina Grey wasn’t coming.

Xander Vale stood at the center of his family’s empire in a black suit tailored to destroy men. His jaw was locked, eyes black with rage and something worse: humiliation. His left hand held a shattered whiskey glass. The blood ran from his knuckles to the cuff of his white shirt like a slow signature.

“She left,” he said again, voice dead.

“I’m aware,” said his father, Victor Vale, seated calmly in the corner, suit pristine, fingers steepled. “And you’re still getting married.”

“To who?” Xander snapped.

Victor tilted his head slightly toward the door. “She’s waiting.”

Xander turned slowly.

And saw her.

She stood just inside the grand hall, still and pale in a gown that wasn’t hers, its lace sleeves slightly too long. Her hair was twisted back into something formal, something forced. Thick glasses slid down the bridge of her nose, and her lips were slightly parted like she didn’t quite know how to breathe.

Alina.

The little ghost from the back offices. The girl who never looked up. The girl who once brought him coffee and nearly dropped it when he brushed past her.

She looked like a stand-in from someone else’s dream.

“The hell is this?” he growled, stalking toward his father.

Victor didn’t move. “She’s your wife now.”

“Like hell she is.”

“You’ll stand before the guests in ten minutes. They already saw the dress. No one will know.”

“You think I care what they know?”

“I think,” Victor said softly, “you care about what Seraphina did. And you’d rather set yourself on fire than let the world know she beat you to the match.”

Xander stared at him, breath tight.

Then turned to Alina.

She didn’t flinch.

Of course she wouldn’t.

She’d been in love with him for years.

He remembered now. The way she used to linger when she thought he wasn’t looking. The way she blushed when she caught his voice down the hallway. The way she smiled always too soft, too hopeful. Like she didn’t understand what he was made of.

“Did you agree to this?” he asked her.