THREE
1227 Words
Roselia
Alistair Deveraux—Engaged?! Who is the Mystery Woman?
Headlines were written all over the internet as soon as he pulled out such a crazy stunt in a cathedral. With his popularity and status in life, as expected, I gained nothing but hate comments, curses, and even a few words of fearsome future.
“It’s okay.” Alistair spoke, busy watching the dance steps that his trainer recorded for him to practice upon for his upcoming music video.
“What’s okay?” I spoke, surprised that he knew what I was up to even when he’s not looking at me.
“Everything is.” Like before, he tends to keep his replies as short as two words.
I wanted to deny and ask for details, but as I watched him work, his concentration, silence, and air of professionalism, completely made me speechless.
…just how the hell is this man, who is adored by many, is the same man who doesn’t even cast me a glance unless it’s absolutely necessary?
***
I should’ve asked for details.
The sky above the cathedral was painted in warm hues of gold and pink, a breathtaking canvas as the sun began its descent.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Alistair had thrown me into this whirlwind, announcing to the world that I was his fiancée.
He hid me from the media the entire phase of it.
And today, we are getting married.
The world seemed to hold its breath as the grand doors stood closed, separating me from the chaos beyond. The air smelled of fresh roses and vanilla, a sickly sweet scent that filled my lungs as I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
I hadn’t seen it coming. I hadn’t even been given a warning. Just like that, my life had spiraled into something completely unrecognizable, consumed by an endless stream of reporters, social media frenzies, and the suffocating reality of being tied to the world’s most beloved superstar.
And now, I was standing at the threshold of the most extravagant wedding anyone could dream of, draped in an ivory gown that cost more than my entire existence. The lace embroidery cascaded down the silk fabric, shimmering subtly under the golden lights of the cathedral. It was a fairytale dress—a dress meant for a woman who belonged in this world. A woman I was not.
“Are you ready?”
I snapped out of my thoughts, turning my head slightly to see Lucien standing beside me. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his usual carefree smirk replaced with something softer. Something almost reassuring.
“No,” I admitted, my fingers tightening around the bouquet in my hands. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”
Lucien chuckled, tilting his head. “You do, you know. You could run.”
I exhaled sharply, giving him a pointed look. “And have Enzo hunt me down because I lost Alistair’s money? No thanks.”
He let out a low whistle. “Fair point.”
Silence stretched between us, the weight of what was about to happen settling into my bones. I wasn’t ready. Not for the vows. Not for the kiss. Not for the life that would follow after today.
“Roselia.”
I turned at the sound of my name, and my breath caught in my throat.
Alistair stood at the opposite end of the hall, dressed in a pristine white suit that complemented his sculpted features almost too perfectly. His dark hair was styled to effortless perfection, his deep blue eyes meeting mine with a gaze that’ll make any woman swoon.
He looked in love.
He extended a hand toward me. “It’s time.”
My fingers trembled as I placed my hand in his, the warmth of his skin making my stomach flutter against my will. His grip was firm yet gentle, steadying me in ways I didn’t want to admit. I told myself it was all for show, that every touch, every stolen glance, was nothing more than a meticulously crafted performance. But for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to pretend.
The cathedral doors swung open.
Gasps and murmurs filled the air as all eyes turned to us. Reporters lined the outer edges, their cameras flashing relentlessly, capturing every second of this grand illusion. The massive chandeliers overhead bathed the marble floors in a golden glow, and thousands of fresh white roses adorned every inch of the grand hall. A live orchestra played a gentle melody, the notes wrapping around me like a bittersweet lullaby.
Alistair led me down the aisle with slow, measured steps. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn around, to run before it was too late. But my feet carried me forward, drawn by the inevitability of it all.
We reached the altar, where the officiant stood waiting. Alistair’s grip on my hand tightened for just a second before he let go, turning to face me. I forced myself to meet his gaze, searching for something—anything—that would make sense of this madness.
“For everyone who holds a piece of their souls,” the officiant began, his voice echoing through the grand cathedral. “We gather here today to witness the union of Alistair Deveraux and Roselia Maribella.”
The words felt heavy, suffocating. My heart pounded against my ribcage as the ceremony unfolded, each spoken vow a chain tightening around my existence.
.
.
.
“Do you, Alistair Deveraux, take Roselia Maribella to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
A slow, knowing smile curled at Alistair’s lips. “I do.”
“And do you, Roselia Maribella, take Alistair Deveraux to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
My mouth felt dry. I hesitated, the weight of my answer pressing down on me. My gaze flickered to Lucien, who was watching intently from the sidelines, his expression unreadable. Then back to Alistair, who remained as composed as ever, as if he already knew what my answer would be.
I inhaled sharply. “I do.”
The officiant smiled. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
A hush fell over the crowd, the moment stretching unbearably as Alistair reached for me. My pulse thundered in my ears as he cupped my face with practiced ease, his fingers feather-light against my skin. His gaze flickered to my lips for a brief second before he leaned in, his breath warm against mine.
Then, he kissed me.
It was soft. Deliberate. A perfect performance for the cameras. But beneath the surface, there was something else—something that made my stomach twist and my knees weaken.
His lips moved against mine with an intimacy that felt too real, too consuming, as if he wasn’t just playing a role. As if he wanted me to believe it, just for a second.
When he pulled away, the room erupted into applause.
I forced a smile, knowing that from this moment on, I was no longer just Roselia Maribella, the struggling waitress with a mountain of debt.
I was Roselia Deveraux—a spy worth 30 million. The problem? I don’t even know what I am spying about.
A wife to a man I barely knew.
- Writer
