Page 55 of The Cruel Heir
I tilted my head. “Not anymore. Your professor will understand.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice suddenly shaking. “Why are you acting like-”
Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the moment it clicked.
Her breath caught. “Sterling… where are you taking me?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The truth was already crawling up her spine.
“This is insane,” she hissed, digging her heels in, as I started pulling her toward the car. “You can’t just show up and-”
“No,” I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. “No, my little hummingbird. This is fate.”
Her silence was thick with dread. She wasn’t confused anymore. She knew. She just didn’t know how to stop it.
The chapel was small,hidden, meant for secrets. The Kingsley Family Trust Pastor, Reverend Elijah Cross, stood at the altar, like he’d buried a hundred deals before this one. His presence was unshakable. Clean-cut suit. Sharp eyes. A man who knew how to keep his mouth shut for the right price.
We arrived together in silence. I drove, while she stared out the window, lips pressed tight, clutching her stomach, like it might save her from what waited ahead. When we got there, Malachi was already waiting. Isaiah wasn’t. He was still recovering from an incident last week. Frankie said the bullet missed anything vital, but rest was non-negotiable.
I didn’t drag her in, like some barbarian. I guided her, firm but careful, into the private dressing suite the team had prepared. The room was warm, softly lit, a full vanity setup glittering with untouched brushes and shimmer palettes. A floor-length mirror leaned against the wall, flanked by plush seating and a silver cart, stacked with glass bottles and finger foods.
The dress was already displayed on a mannequin. Her name, ZARA, embroidered in gold on a silk hanger. Frankie had pulled every string to make sure it was perfect.
Zara didn’t speak as they undid the buttons of her coat. Didn’t fight as they led her to the chair, gently tilting her chin, threading pins through her coils with reverence. It wasn’t a bridal suite.
It was a war tent. And she was the prize.
I watched it all from the doorway. Not because I doubted them, but because she needed to see me there. Watching. Owning it.
This wasn’t romance.
It was a message: I would give her the illusion of softness, so long as she never forgot who held the leash.
She didn’t know I had called in favors, the moment my mother barged into the bathroom last week, gasping like a woman betrayed. That same night, I sent out orders to the tailor in Milan, the stylist from Brooklyn, and Frankie, who always knew how to spin luxury out of chaos. I gave them forty-eight hours, and a blank check. Zara wouldn’t have the kind of wedding she dreamed of, but she wouldn’t feel discarded either.
The dress wasn’t white by accident, it was ivory silk, hand-cut to stretch and mold around the swell of her stomach, corseted at the waist, with lace sourced from the same French mill that dressed Monaco’s elite. The veil was soft tulle, with tiny pearls sewn into the edge, by women who didn’t blink at rush jobs when the Kingsleys called. Her hair was pinned high in coils, her crown understated, but royal.
Even the perfume misted on her collarbones was intentional, the same scent she wore when we were kids, and she thought I didn’t notice.
She came out of the back suite a full fifteen minutes later, flanked by two of the stylists. She didn’t walk like a bride. She moved like she was headed to her own funeral. But she looked... breathtaking.
The ivory clung to her like devotion. Her lips had been tinted a dark wine, her lashes thick and curled. Even the ring I placed on her finger before she saw it, a rare-cut sapphire framed by white diamonds, had been chosen because it matched the night sky the first time she looked at me like I wasn’t just her stepbrother.
I didn’t speak until we were alone, my voice slicing through the tension. “You keep looking for an exit, like someone’s coming to save you.”
Her jaw clenched. “They’ll talk.”
“Let them.”
“Our parents recently got married,” she hissed, voice low and cutting. “People will say-”
“That I married my stepsister?” I tilted my head, unbothered. “Good. Let them be jealous that I had the balls to take what I wanted, while they hide behind generational shame.”
She flinched, but stood her ground. “Sterling, please. Not yet. Just... not like this. Let the dust settle. Give them time to forget.”
I studied her. Lips trembling. Chest rising fast. Not from fear, but exhaustion.
“They’ll eat me alive,” she added, softer now. “They’ll say I slept my way into the name.”
