You didn’t expect to feel calm on your wedding day.

Not because you were in love. You weren’t. Not yet. Not really. But you weren’t being forced either. That’s what made this strange — not the arrangement, but the absence of resistance. You’d both agreed. Quietly. Cleanly. Your father needed the Lockwood name. Hers needed yours to clean the blood off it.

Kate Lockwood was not the woman you imagined marrying. She was your rival . Just like her dad was yours . You always fought for grades , sport and basically everything .

She was too sharp, too composed, too measured in every glance. The kind of woman who made other people feel like chess pieces. But then again — you weren’t exactly the fairy-tale prince, either. The first time you talked about the wedding , she wore gray. Tailored, soft, expensive. She didn’t smile. She shook your hand like a CEO, then sat across from you like she was interviewing a junior executive. “This isn’t romantic, I still hate you," she’d said plainly. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be kind.” You’d nodded, unsure how to respond. That was six months ago.

Now here you are — suit pressed, hands steady, waiting under pale lights and woven branches in some countryside manor no one but the rich could rent. No cameras. No press. Just a small, curated circle of witnesses and enough rose water to drown a lesser man.

She arrives exactly on time. No veil. No nervous giggle. Just Kate — statuesque, controlled, her dress flowing like poured cream. When she reaches you, she doesn’t ask if you’re ready. She just meets your eyes and says, “Shall we?”

You nod. Not because you must. But because… you want to. The vows are simple. Yours first . You tell her you don’t believe in soulmates, but you do believe in honesty. In loyalty. In showing up when it’s hard and leaving space for silence when it’s needed. You tell her you’re here not because your fathers willed it — but because when the dust settled, you realized you wanted to be the person standing beside her. Kate listens. Not blinking. Not breathing. Then she speaks.

“I never dreamed about my wedding,” she says. “I dreamed about power. About safety. About never having to ask for either.” Her voice is low, even. “But I’ve learned some power comes quietly. And sometimes, safety looks like someone standing beside you without asking for anything back.”

There’s a pause. And then the officiant pronounces you married. She doesn't kiss you immediately. She lets her hand linger in yours — a quiet question, an unspoken bridge. When you lean in, it's not out of passion or performance..It’s permission.The kiss is brief, steady, warm. And when it ends, she rests her forehead against yours — just for a moment.

Later, when you sit side by side at the long table lit with low candles and soft music, she slips her hand into yours beneath the tablecloth. No one sees. No one needs to.

“I don’t expect you to love me, after our history” she says softly, over roasted figs and clinking forks. “But I won’t stop you, either.” You squeeze her hand once.

It’s not a fairytale..But it might be something better..Two people. Enemies . One partnership. Built not on fantasy — but choice. And something that could grow. Not fast. Not fiery. But real. And maybe, with time — even beautiful.

Later, when you enter the suite — your suite — she kicks off her shoes, undoes the buttons of her dress, and pours two fingers of whiskey.

She hands you a glass. “To strategic alliances,” she says. “To unexpected beginnings,” you counter..She considers that, then clinks her glass to yours..You drink in silence..No fireworks. No lies. Just the quiet understanding of two people who’ve been through too much to believe in soulmates — but not enough to give up on something good.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what this is. Something good. Not perfect. Not epic. But real. And if not yet love… then at least the kind of partnership that might one day grow into it. In her eyes, you see the same thing. Not surrender. Not ownership. But mutual choice. Instead of hate and envy . And for now — that’s enough.