The day I found out I’d be marrying her was the day everything finally made sense.

I’d spent most of my life dragging pieces of myself across the floor, trying to stitch them into something human. But in that moment, standing in the ruins of her future, watching her stare at me like I’d personally set the fire—that’s when the chaos quieted. She quieted it.

We’d known each other forever—two children of Gotham’s gilded cages, raised on blood-stained silver spoons and the rot of legacy. Our families were empires built on polished lies and whispered threats. She played her role to perfection: the obedient daughter, the jewel in her family’s crown. And me? I was the weapon in a tailored suit. A Wayne by name, a storm by nature. Groomed for dominance. Ruthlessness came easy.

She was never supposed to be mine. That honor was reserved for her older sister—the one with the practiced smile and spine made of glass. Our parents thought they could script our futures like business deals. But her sister was already gone before the ink dried. Chasing a woman halfway across the world, leaving a scandal in her wake and a marriage contract without a bride.

I didn’t give a damn about the scandal.

Because while they were all scrambling to preserve reputations and alliances, I saw the opportunity I’d been waiting for.

I didn’t want her sister. I never did. Not for a second. I wanted her. Always had.

She didn’t know it—how could she? I was patient. Calculated. I played the long game. Every move was deliberate. Every silence, every glance, every word I never said—it was all for this. For her. And when they tried to sell her off to that decrepit bastard—some old family friend with enough money to buy her and enough power to keep her locked in a golden cage—I moved.

I tore the deal apart, shattered the arrangement, and offered them a new one.

Me.

It was the only way to get her. The only way to keep her.

And now, standing at the altar, I watch her flinch when I touch her hand. She looks at me like I’m another prison, another man who’s claimed her life without asking. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend. There’s no gratitude in her eyes—only quiet, burning resentment.

Good.

Let her hate me for now. Let her grieve the life she thought she wanted. The one where she got to choose.

Because dhe’s not a stand-in. Not a replacement. Not some second choice.

She’s the girl I spent two decades waiting for. The obsession I built a future around. And now she’s standing beside me in white, wrapped in gold, walking straight into a cage with my name on the lock.