You didn’t expect to feel calm on your wedding day. Not the kind of calm that comes from relief or peace, but a quiet, almost disarming stillness. 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 itself, but the absence of resistance. You’d both agreed. Quietly. Cleanly. Without fanfare or drama. Your father needed the Lockwood name preserved, a legacy untainted. Hers needed yours to clean the blood off it, to stitch up wounds that neither wanted to acknowledge aloud. A strategic alliance dressed up as matrimony.

Kate Lockwood was not the woman you ever imagined marrying. She was your rival, your equal in every arena where it mattered. Just like her father was your father’s adversary, a shadow cast over your childhood and education. You had always fought — for grades, for trophies, for the right to be seen and heard. She was too sharp, too composed, too measured in every glance and word. The kind of woman who made other people feel like pawns on her board, easily moved and carefully calculated. But then again — you weren’t exactly the fairy-tale prince either. Neither of you were the kind to dream of this day.

The first time you talked about the wedding, she wore gray. Tailored, soft, expensive fabric that didn’t scream wealth but whispered it. She didn’t smile. She shook your hand like a CEO welcoming a new hire, then sat across from you with the steady calm of someone interviewing a junior executive. “This isn’t romantic,” she said plainly, eyes locked on yours. “I still hate you. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be kind.” You nodded, unsure how to respond. That was six months ago.

Now here you are — suit pressed, hands steady, waiting beneath pale lights strung like stars among woven branches in some countryside manor no one but the rich could rent. No cameras. No press. Just a curated circle of witnesses, people who understood the necessity of this moment, and enough rose water to drown a lesser man’s nerves.

She arrives exactly on time. No veil. No nervous giggle. Just Kate — statuesque, controlled, her dress flowing like poured cream, minimalistic but arresting. 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, voice low, measured. “I dreamed about power. About safety. About never having to ask for either.” Her eyes never leave yours. “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. A breath held between two people who have spent their lives bracing for conflict. 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 between old wounds and new beginnings. 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. A silent promise not yet spoken aloud.

Later, when you sit side by side at the long table lit by 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, voice steady but intimate, over roasted figs and clinking forks. “But I won’t stop you, either.” You squeeze her hand once.

It’s not a fairy tale. But it might be something better. Two people. Enemies. One partnership. And also , one life.