Chapter 165

Chapter 52

The gentle strokes of the makeup brush against her skin felt mechanical, distant. Isla sat motionless as the maid delicately applied the final touches—soft blush on her cheeks, a whisper of highlighter on her brow bone, a neutral shade on her lips. But it was all meaningless.

She was supposed to feel beautiful today. She was supposed to feel special. Instead, she felt like a hollow shell, going through the motions of a day that had already begun to turn sour.

And then, it was time.

The dress.

The gown chosen not by her, but by Layla Anderson. Graham’s Layla.

As the garment bag was unzipped, Isla’s stomach twisted into a knot, bile rising in her throat the moment she saw it.

It was everything she didn’t want.

Long sleeves—stiff and heavy, suffocating her at the wrists.

A boat neckline—prim, conservative, stripping her of any trace of femininity or allure.

Tulle lace—delicate and intricate, but to her, it was claustrophobic, a relic of a past era meant for a sixteen-year-old maiden locked in a tower.

The dress was a statement. But it wasn’t hers.

She hated it.

She hated the way it looked. Hated the way it felt. Hated the way, the moment she stepped into it, it swallowed her whole—turning her into someone she wasn’t.

But she wore it.

She let the maids fasten the buttons at her back, let them smooth down the fabric, let them pin the veil into her hair. She let them do it all, because what else was she supposed to do? Rip it off and demand another dress? There wasn’t another dress. There wasn’t another choice.

There never had been.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the air in her lungs stilled.

She didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her.

She should have looked radiant, glowing with the kind of happiness that brides were meant to feel on their wedding day. But instead, her face was blank, her eyes dim, her lips pressed into a thin, lifeless line.

She looked like a stranger.

This wasn’t the wedding she had dreamed of.

This wasn’t the day she had imagined.

This was a shotgun wedding disguised in white lace and forced smiles.

A dress she hated.

A groom who had reprimanded her, who had chosen to silence her instead of listen.

And a wedding that, moment by moment, was turning into something she was starting to hate.

Her chest tightened as Maggie adjusted the veil over her shoulders, offering her a soft, hopeful smile. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” she said gently.

But Isla felt nothing.

Not joy.

Not excitement.

Just a growing emptiness, creeping in like a shadow.

sla moved like a puppet on invisible strings, every motion dictated by expectation rather than will.

She wore the dress like she had been told to.

She walked with the grace of an elegant lady, just as she had been instructed to.

She stood beside Graham in front of the priest, her posture prim, her hands folded neatly before her, just as she was supposed to.

But she didn’t smile.

Not at Graham.

Not at the guests.

Not even at Maggie, whose worried eyes followed her every step down the aisle.

She barely looked at him as she approached, the heavy weight of her dress pressing against her skin like a cage. She felt trapped—trapped in lace, in duty, in a moment that should have been the happiest of her life but instead felt like a beautifully wrapped prison.

She didn’t want to be here.

Not like this.

And Graham knew.

He had sensed it the moment she stepped onto the aisle, long before she reached him. Isla was many things, but subtle was not one of them.

His bride was furious.

Her eyes, normally bright with fire, were dull now, cold as steel. She refused to meet his gaze, her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. Every step she took toward him was stiff, controlled, forced.

Graham sighed, exhaling slowly as she finally came to stand beside him.

So, this was how she was going to be today.

She was angry.

She didn’t like the dress. She hated the person who made it even more.

A spitfire of a jealous little thing.

And God, how he loved it.

There was something intoxicating about the way she burned, the way she let her emotions simmer beneath the surface, never fully hiding them, never pretending to be anything but exactly what she felt. She was possessive over him, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She hated that Layla had been involved, that his ex had touched any part of this wedding.

It was adorable.

And so very Isla.

Graham sighed again, this time softer, almost indulgent.

She might be furious with him now.

She might hate the dress, the wedding, the way he had dismissed her feelings earlier.

But it wouldn’t last.

Soon—soon—this celebration, this ridiculous, extravagant performance would be over.

And he would finally be alone with his bride.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

He would make it up to her.

He would take her far, far away, to a place so secluded, so untouched by the outside world, that there would be nothing to interrupt them.

An empty island, where there would be no staff, no family, no guests—just them.

Where the only thing between them and the sky would be warm, golden sand.

Where he would press her into the earth beneath a canopy of stars, the sound of waves crashing around them as he reminded her—over and over again—why she belonged to him.

Where he would worship every inch of her, drown her in so much attention, so much of him, that this day, this fight, this dress—would all fade into nothing.

Yes.

She might be furious now.

But it wouldn’t last.

Not when he was done with her.

A slow grin spread across his face, satisfaction curling in his chest like a lazy flame.

This was only the beginning.

The murmur of the guests faded into the background as the priest began reciting the vows, his voice steady and solemn. The weight of the moment settled over them, thick as the summer air, yet Graham felt nothing but a slow, burning anticipation coursing through his veins.

Then he reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers wrapped around hers, he felt it—that familiar spark. A shiver of electric heat slithered down his spine, potent, undeniable, as if the universe itself recognized the connection between them. It had always been like this. Always. A single touch from her, and his entire body responded. But today, it was more intense. So much more intense.

Because in just another moment, she would be his.

He could feel the tension in her hand, the stiffness in her fingers as she let him hold her. She was still angry, still wrapped in that silent fury, but she wasn’t pulling away. She was standing here, next to him, binding herself to him with these vows, this ritual, this moment.

The priest’s voice carried through the air, weaving ancient words of union and devotion, but Graham barely heard them. His focus was solely on her—the defiant set of her jaw, the way her lashes swept downward, as if refusing to look at him, the slight tremble in her grip that she tried so desperately to suppress.

But he felt it.

He felt everything.

Then came the final words.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Graham’s lips curled into the faintest smirk.

It was done.

She was his.

The priest nodded toward him. “You may now kiss the bride.”

His hold on her hand tightened ever so slightly as he stepped closer.

There was no hesitation. No uncertainty.

He tilted her chin up gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. For the briefest moment, he saw the conflict flicker in her eyes—anger still smoldering beneath the surface, but beneath that, something else. Something she would never admit aloud.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, and then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft, restrained, but possessive. A mere press of lips, sealing the words spoken, the vows exchanged. But even in that brief moment, he made sure she felt it.

Felt him.

Felt what she had just become.

His wife.

The moment their lips parted, the silence shattered.

A roar of applause and cheers erupted from the crowd, a symphony of congratulations echoing around them. Laughter, claps, the excited chatter of guests celebrating the union.

The evening air was thick with the scent of roses and candle wax, a soft golden glow illuminating the garden as the sun dipped below the horizon. The chatter of guests mellowed into a quiet hum, glasses clinking, laughter floating on the breeze, but none of it mattered to Graham.

All he cared about was the woman in his arms.

His wife.

The slow melody of a love song played in the background, the notes weaving between them as they moved together in a gentle dance. He held her close, one hand firm on the small of her back, the other clasping her fingers in a loose, intimate grip. Their bodies swayed in rhythm, moving as one beneath the fairy lights strung across the reception hall, casting shadows that flickered like whispers of something unspoken.

But she was distant.

She let him hold her, let him lead the dance, but the fire he was so used to seeing in her eyes was dim.

She wasn’t smiling.

She wasn’t looking at him the way a bride should look at her groom.

Graham exhaled, pressing his forehead lightly against hers as he pulled her in closer, his lips grazing the delicate shell of her ear. “You look so damn sexy tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate, meant only for her. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me in this dress.”

His lips trailed along her temple, then down to her cheek, placing slow, lingering kisses against her skin.

She sighed, but it wasn’t the breathless kind he wanted. It was tired.

Graham’s chest tightened.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew she was still upset. He had seen it in the way she barely met his gaze during the ceremony, the way her voice had been quiet and detached when she said I do. She had done everything right, played the perfect bride, but she wasn’t happy.

And that—that was unacceptable.

This was their day.

This was supposed to be the moment where she looked at him with nothing but love, where she melted into him, where she forgot whatever had upset her.

Instead, she was stiff in his arms, barely reacting to his touch, her mind a thousand miles away.

He couldn’t stand it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her ear, his lips brushing the soft skin there. “For snapping at you this morning. I shouldn’t have done that.”

She didn’t respond.

He sighed, pulling back just enough to look into her face. The glow from the string lights reflected in her dark eyes, but they held no warmth.

He pressed another kiss to her cheek. “Layla doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “No one else matters as much as you do.”

Her lashes fluttered for the briefest second, a flicker of something in her gaze. But then it was gone.

His jaw clenched.

He wasn’t going to let this linger. He wasn’t going to let her sulk through their wedding night.

So, he kept kissing her—soft, slow kisses along her jawline, down the curve of her neck, his grip on her waist tightening just a little. “Come on, baby,” he coaxed, his voice like silk. “Smile for me.”

But she didn’t.

The afternoon bled into evening, and still, Isla remained quiet, her expression unreadable.

The guests, one by one, began to take their leave, offering their congratulations, their goodbyes. Laughter and clinking glasses slowly faded as the crowd thinned, until it was just a handful of people lingering in the glow of the candles and the twinkling lights.

Graham didn’t take his eyes off her.

He had never been a man to beg. But tonight, if that was what it took to tear down her walls, he would.

Because this was their wedding.

And he wasn’t letting her go to bed angry.