Snapping My Ex-Mate's Wrist on Our Wedding Day

The brass handle turned. The door swung wide, hitting the interior stopper with a dull thud. Kael stepped into the hallway, adjusting the lapels of his midnight-blue tuxedo. He didn’t flinch at the sight of me. He didn’t gasp at the blood blooming across the white carpet or the glass shards embedded in my shoe.

He looked at me as if I were a minor inconvenience he’d forgotten to clear from his schedule.

"You're early," Kael said. His voice was steady, devoid of the heat I’d heard just seconds ago. "The ceremony doesn't start for another forty minutes."

"I saw you," I whispered. My voice sounded thin, like dry parchment tearing. "I saw both of you."

Kael didn't blink. He took a step toward me, closing the distance until the scent of him—that heavy, cloying vanilla—swamped my senses. It wasn't just the cake anymore. It was the scent of Selene’s perfume, the smell of the lounge, the smell of betrayal. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.

"And?" Kael asked.

He reached out. His hand moved toward my face. I tried to pull back, but my back hit the cold plaster of the hallway wall. He caught my jaw, his fingers digging into the bone.

"Don't touch me," I gritted out.

"I'll touch what belongs to me, Elora."

He tilted my head up. His thumb pressed into the corner of my mouth, forcing my lips apart. That’s when I saw it. On the back of his hand, right between the thumb and forefinger, was a fresh, angry crescent of purple marks. Teeth marks.

Selene had left her signature on him.

"You're hurting me," I said, though the physical pain in my jaw was nothing compared to the coldness in my chest.

"You're being dramatic. It's a wedding day requirement, I suppose." Kael’s eyes scanned my face, searching for tears that wouldn't come. "You look pale. It clashes with the dress."

"The dress is ruined," I said, my gaze flickering toward the open door where my reception gown lay trampled under Selene’s heels. "Everything is ruined."

Kael let out a short, sharp laugh. He released my jaw, but only to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a folded sheaf of heavy cream paper.

"Nothing is ruined unless I say it is," he countered.

He snapped the paper open. Before I could react, he slapped it against my cheek, the sharp edge of the vellum stinging my skin. He held it there, pinning it against my face for a heartbeat before letting it flutter down. I caught it reflexively, my blood-stained fingers leaving smeared red prints on the pristine document.

"What is this?" I asked, looking down.

"A transfer of title," Kael replied. "And a non-disclosure agreement regarding the Thorne family’s private interests."

I scanned the lines. My breath caught. "The North Ridge? Kael, that's my father's land. That’s the entire Vance estate. You want me to sign over the deed before we even reach the altar?"

"I don't want you to, Elora. I'm telling you to."

"This wasn't part of the pre-nuptial agreement."

"The terms changed the moment you decided to eavesdrop at the door." Kael leaned in, his shadow swallowing me. "Consider it the price of my silence. You sign the land over to me, you walk down that aisle, and we play the part of the happy couple. You get the Thorne name. I get the Ridge."

"And Selene?" I hissed. "Do you get her too? Is she part of the 'private interests'?"

Kael’s expression didn't shift. He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "Your sister provides things you can't. She’s... vibrant. You're a statue, Elora. A beautiful, boring, porcelain statue."

I looked down, my eyes fixing on his wrist. There it was. The silver cufflink I’d spent three months searching for. I’d had it custom-engraved with his initials and our wedding date. It caught the light, gleaming mockingly against his starched white cuff. I wanted to rip it off. I wanted to tear the fabric until his skin bled.

"I won't do it," I said, my voice gaining a sudden, sharp edge. "I won't sign. I'll go out there right now. I'll tell the guests. I'll tell the press. I'll tell your father."

Kael’s hand shot out again. This time, he didn't grab my jaw. He wrapped his fingers around my throat, not squeezing enough to choke, but enough to remind me of the power imbalance.

"You'll tell no one," he hissed. "You think my father cares who I fuck? He cares about the Ridge. He cares about the merger. If you ruin this, Elora, you won't just be a jilted bride. You'll be a destitute one."

I twisted my neck, jerking my head to the side to break his contact. My skin burned where he’d touched me. The vanilla scent was thick enough to taste now, coating my tongue like grease. I felt a surge of bile rise in my throat.

"I'd rather be a beggar than your wife," I spat.

Kael stepped back, smoothing the front of his jacket. He looked at me with a chilling, detached curiosity, as if he were observing a bug under glass.

"You think you have a choice?" he asked. "Look at your hand, Elora. You're already bleeding out. You’re weak."

"I am not weak."

"Then prove it. Put on the mask. Go back to the dressing room, have Maya fix that foot, and get to the staging area."

"And if I don't?"

Kael turned toward the end of the hallway, where two of his personal security guards stood like granite pillars near the garden entrance. He didn't look back at me when he spoke.

"If you're not at the top of those stairs in twenty minutes, I’ll simplify the process," Kael said, his voice dropping to a low, guttural threat. "I won't wait for a 'yes' or 'no.' I’ll have the guards break your legs and drag you down the red carpet myself. You’ll sign those papers with a pen or with your own blood, but the Ridge will be mine by sunset."

"Kael—"

"Twenty minutes, Elora," he cut me off. "Don't make me come looking for you again. The next time won't be nearly as polite."

He pivoted on his heel and strode away. His polished shoes clicked rhythmically against the hardwood sections of the floor, a steady, predatory sound that echoed in the hollow space of the corridor.

I stood alone in the hallway. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant, cheerful tuning of a violin from the garden.

I looked down at the paper in my hand. The blood from my palm had soaked into the corner of the deed, turning the elegant script of the Vance family name into a blurred, crimson mess.

My foot throbbed. The glass was deep.

From inside the lounge, I heard a soft, melodic giggle. Selene.

"Is he gone?" she called out, her voice dripping with honeyed malice.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I turned and began to limp back toward the staging area, leaving a trail of red dots behind me on the white silk carpet.

The wedding was still happening. But as I gripped the thorns of my bouquet, I realized I wasn't walking toward a marriage. I was walking into a war.

The garden doors creaked open in the distance, and the first notes of the wedding march began to play, sounding more like a funeral dirge than a celebration.