Chapter 3 - The Mountain Chapel
The Vale estate chapel was a masterpiece of old-world stone and modern security. Situated on a rocky outcrop overlooking the pine-covered valley, its stained-glass windows depicted mountain scenes rather than saints, and its heavy oak doors were reinforced with steel plates.
Clara stood before a tall mirror in a small dressing room adjacent to the altar.
She wasn't wearing white.
When Thomas Grayson had first drawn up the contract, he'd suggested a bridal gown. Clara had flatly refused. Instead, she wore a simple, elegant emerald-green silk dress that hugged her waist and fell gracefully to her knees—a dress she’d bought two years ago for her best friend's wedding and rarely had an occasion to wear since.
Her hair was half-up, secured with a tortoise-shell clip. She wore minimal makeup, just a touch of mascara and rose-tinted lip balm.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in."
Elena entered, wearing a sleek silver suit. She stopped and smiled softly. "Clara. You look... stunning."
"Thanks. It's either stunning or completely inadequate for a mafia wedding, but I'm rolling with it." Clara smoothed the front of her dress. "Is he out there?"
"Adrian is waiting. Along with half a dozen armed guards disguised as groomsmen." Elena's smile faded slightly. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
They walked down the short stone corridor together, pushing open the heavy double doors into the chapel.
It was small, intimate, and freezing. The stone walls radiated a chill that made Clara shiver, though whether it was the temperature or the nerves, she couldn't be sure.
Standing at the front of the altar was Adrian.
He had traded his black jacket for a sharp charcoal suit with a white shirt and a dark green tie that subtly matched Clara's dress. As she walked down the stone aisle—alone, since she had no family left to give her away—Adrian turned.
His breath caught.
Clara saw it in the sudden dilation of his dark eyes, the way his broad shoulders squared even further. He looked at her as if she were the only person in the cold, stone room.
When she reached the altar, he didn't reach for her hand immediately. He simply waited until she stood right beside him.
"You didn't wear white," he noted quietly.
"White is impractical for baking bread," Clara whispered back. "And apparently impractical for marrying a man who attracts anonymous stalkers."
A low, deep rumble of amusement came from his chest.
An elderly man in a black robe, who Clara suspected was both a retired judge and a Vale loyalist, cleared his throat and began the ceremony.
It was fast. Painfully fast. No sappy poetry about star-crossed lovers. Just vows of mutual respect, financial terms of the contract briefly summarized for legal validity, and the exchange of rings.
When Adrian took her hand to slide a simple platinum band onto her finger, his skin was warm, his grip steady. His hand completely engulfed hers.
"You may kiss the bride," the officiant said.
Clara expected a polite peck on the cheek. A strategic touch of lips to satisfy the legal requirements of the contract.
Instead, Adrian placed his large, warm hand gently against the back of her neck, tilting her face upward. His eyes searched hers for a fraction of a second, asking a silent question.
Are you sure?
Clara didn't pull away.
When his lips touched hers, it wasn't cold or performative. It was firm, deliberate, and carried an undercurrent of raw, suppressed intensity that sent a jolt straight down Clara's spine.
When he finally pulled back, Clara was slightly breathless.
The few guards and witnesses clapped politely. Elena beamed.
"Well," Clara whispered, her cheeks burning. "That certainly wasn't in the brochure."
May you like
Adrian's mouth curved into a real, undeniable smile—warm, devastatingly handsome, and entirely for her.
"Consider it a bonus," he murmured.
