Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

Dressed in a flowing white gown, Sasha sat in front of the mirror, watching herself being transformed. The fabric pooled around her like liquid moonlight, soft and weightless, yet it felt like a shackle around her body. The makeup artist curled the ends of her hair with practiced precision, letting them fall in soft waves down her back. Each strand gleamed under the golden glow of the vanity lights. Her face had been flawlessly made up—her features enhanced just enough to highlight her natural beauty. A touch of blush on her high cheekbones, a subtle shimmer on her eyelids, and her lips painted a shade that was barely different from their natural color. Elegant. Perfect.

And yet, as she studied her reflection, an unsettling hollowness gnawed at her.

She tilted her head slightly, searching for the flaw. Was it her hair? No, it was immaculate. Her makeup? Not a single imperfection. But the longer she stared, the stronger the feeling grew. It was her face, her body—yet something about it felt foreign.

This wasn't her.

Everything—the dress, the makeup, the ceremony—it was all for him. Darius. His name was carved onto her soul, binding her in ways she still didn't fully comprehend. No matter how much she tried to deny it, he was in every breath she took, every beat of her heart. He had claimed her long before this moment.

A light tap on her shoulder pulled her from her trance. She blinked, her gaze shifting to the reflection of a woman standing behind her.

"Your flowers, ma'am," the woman said softly, offering her a bouquet.

Sasha reached out, her fingers brushing against the delicate petals. They were freshly picked, the scent of roses and lilies mingling in the air, but all she could think about was their fate. Soon, they would wilt, their beauty fading with time, yet they would remain—dead but still standing.

Just like me.

A lump formed in her throat, thick and suffocating. She inhaled deeply, willing the emotion back down into the hollow space inside her chest. She couldn't afford to break. Not here. Not now.

She forced her fingers to loosen their grip on the bouquet and turned away from the mirror. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing against her skin, and she found herself sinking onto the edge of the bed, staring at nothing in particular.

Then, the door opened.

The air shifted, an almost imperceptible change, but she felt it in her bones. Her eyes lifted slowly, drawn by an invisible force, and met the figure standing in the doorway.

Darius.

He was dressed in black, the fabric of his suit tailored to perfection, each line sharp, each movement controlled. His presence filled the room, commanding without effort, and yet his expression was unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. She was about to ask for water, if only to break the silence, but his voice cut through it first.

"Come," he ordered.

The word was simple, firm, leaving no room for argument.

She swallowed hard and rose to her feet, the weight of her gown shifting with her. Without hesitation, she followed him, her movements automatic—like a baby duck trailing after its mother, instinctual and unquestioning.

She didn't ask where they were going. She just walked.

The halls were dimly lit, the sound of her footsteps muffled by thick carpets. The silence was eerie, save for the distant hum of voices beyond the walls. It wasn't until they stopped in front of an enormous set of double doors that her heart started pounding.

Darius turned to her, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"Stand here," he said, his voice quieter now, but just as firm. "Don't move until you're called."

Her fingers tightened around the bouquet. "You mean the stage?" she whispered, a nervous tremor in her voice.

He gave her a single nod.

And then, without another word, he stepped through the doors, disappearing inside.

Sasha remained where she stood, staring at the closed doors, her breath unsteady.

The murmur of voices beyond them grew louder, and she realized—this was it.

No turning back.

Alone, Sasha lifted her gaze to the sky. The dark clouds churned above her, thick and heavy, a silent warning of the storm that loomed on the horizon. A sharp gust of wind swept through the air, rustling the hem of her gown and sending a shiver up her spine. Her chest tightened, the weight of emotions pressing against her ribs like an unbearable vice.

This is real.

The bouquet in her hands trembled as she clenched it tighter, her knuckles turning white against the delicate petals. A stinging sensation burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let the tears fall. Her throat ached from the effort of holding everything in—grief, uncertainty, fear. It all coiled inside her like a venomous serpent, tightening its grip with every breath.

She wanted to run.

The instinct surged before she could stop it. Her foot slid back, a desperate attempt to retreat from the inevitable, from the vows she was about to take. But before she could turn away—

A broad figure stepped into her path.

The man was built like a fortress, his tailored suit straining against the sheer bulk of muscle beneath. His gaze, though hidden behind dark sunglasses, held the weight of unspoken command.

"Ma'am, please go inside," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

Sasha hesitated, the air around her thick with the scent of rain and roses. The storm in her chest warred against the one in the sky, both threatening to consume her. But in the end, there was no choice.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to obey.

The heavy doors groaned as they swung open before her, revealing the grand hall beyond. The moment she stepped inside, the world seemed to narrow—because standing at the altar, his presence an unshakable force, was Darius.

Her breath caught.

He was waiting for her, just as he always had been, his piercing gaze locked onto her the instant she crossed the threshold. There was no hesitation in his stare, no flicker of doubt or unease. He saw straight through her, past the layers of reluctance and fear, past the storm brewing in her soul.

The weight of his eyes pressed into her, a silent vow before the real ones could be spoken.

A single drop of water landed on her bare arm.

Then another.

Rain.

She barely registered the priest's voice as he began the ceremony. The words blurred into background noise, drowned out by the pounding of her heartbeat. Her pulse raced, erratic and uneven, like the drumming of rain against the stained-glass windows.

The room spun.

The bouquet slipped in her grasp, her fingers growing numb as an unexpected dizziness swept over her. The ground felt impossibly far away, and before she could steady herself—

A strong arm wrapped around her waist.

Darius.

The scent of him—dark spice, leather, something distinctly him—enveloped her as he held her firm. The warmth of his touch cut through the coldness in her bones, anchoring her before she could collapse.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she gripped his shoulders, her fingers clutching onto the expensive fabric of his coat. She held on as though he were the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

His hold never wavered.

He steadied her with ease, his strength effortless, as if he had expected this—expected her to falter, expected to be the one to catch her.

The priest hesitated for only a moment before continuing, filling the space with sacred words.

Darius's vow came first.

His deep voice cut through the air, steady and unwavering.

"I do."

Sasha's stomach twisted. The weight of those two simple words pressed into her chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Then, it was her turn.

The words felt foreign in her mouth, like an incantation she was never meant to speak. But the room was silent, the air thick with expectation. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she forced herself to breathe—to push the words past lips that suddenly felt too dry.

"I do."

The priest gave a solemn nod of approval.

"Now, you may kiss the bride."

A wave of cheers and whistles erupted around them, but Sasha barely noticed. The world had shrunk again, until there was nothing but the man before her—the man she had once sworn to destroy.

Darius stepped forward, closing the small space between them.

Her breath caught as his fingers found her chin, tilting her face upward. His touch was both possessive and reverent, a contradiction she couldn't decipher. Then, before she could think, before she could steel herself—

His lips met hers.

The contact sent a shockwave through her body, stealing the air from her lungs. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was firm, claiming, an unspoken declaration that sent her senses reeling.

And then—

The sky roared.

A loud clap of thunder split the air, as if the heavens themselves had taken witness. Then came the downpour.

The rain came fast and hard, drenching them within seconds. Gasps and shrieks filled the air as the guests scrambled for cover, but Darius didn't move. Neither did Sasha.

The cold water seeped into her dress, sending a violent shiver through her, but before she could pull away, his arms tightened, locking her against him.

Through the blur of rain and noise, her gaze caught on something just beyond them.

A couple stood a few feet away. The man had discarded his jacket, using it to shield his wife as he carried her through the downpour. Their laughter cut through the storm, their smiles untouched by the chaos around them.

Something in Sasha's chest twisted.

For a moment, just a fleeting second, she allowed herself to wonder.

Was that what love looked like?

The thought vanished as Darius shifted, guiding her toward the entrance. His grip was firm, steady, yet strangely gentle. She let herself be led, her body too exhausted to resist.

As they stepped into the grand hall, the warmth inside contrasted starkly with the chill of her rain-soaked dress. Goosebumps erupted along her arms, and an involuntary shiver wracked her frame.

Darius said nothing.

But he didn't let go.

And that, more than anything, made her stomach twist in ways she couldn't explain.

The grand hall was alive with murmurs, a symphony of polite complaints mingling with the soft clinking of glasses and the distant hum of rain against the towering windows. Chandeliers cast golden light over the elegantly dressed guests, illuminating conversations wrapped in luxury and old money.

Yet, despite the warmth inside, Sasha felt a chill settle deep in her bones.

She stood near the edge of the gathering, silent, an outsider observing a world she was still trying to navigate. The scent of aged wine and expensive cologne clung to the air, yet all she could focus on was the downpour outside, the rain drumming against the glass like an impatient visitor demanding to be let in.

Then, through the sea of unfamiliar faces, a woman approached.

She moved with an effortless grace, her presence exuding a warmth that felt almost foreign in this world of calculated power plays and whispered secrets. She was striking—dark eyes gleaming with quiet intelligence, her beauty not just in her features but in the ease of her smile.

"Hello," the woman greeted, her voice smooth, carrying the kind of confidence that came from knowing her place in this world.

Sasha hesitated before replying, her voice softer than she intended. "Hello."

The woman studied her, as if piecing together the puzzle of her presence. Then, with an amused curve of her lips, she continued, "Darius and my husband are close friends. I'm Léa Rousseau."

Sasha tensed.

Rousseau.

Her gaze flickered past Léa, settling on the two men standing near the bar. Darius was deep in conversation with another man—tall, sharply dressed, his expression unreadable. Léon Rousseau.

Sasha had heard about him, of course. A man with a reputation as brutal as it was polished. Ruthless in business. Dangerous in loyalty. And the woman standing before her was his wife.

Léa chuckled, drawing Sasha's attention back to her. "And you are?"

Sasha hesitated, fingers clenching slightly at her sides. She knew she should introduce herself properly, but for some reason, her name felt like a fragile thing in this room, a whisper lost in a storm.

"Sasha," she finally said, her voice almost an exhale.

Léa tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "No surname?"

Sasha hesitated again, shifting on her heels. "It's just… everything happened so fast."

It wasn't a lie.

Not really.

Léa studied her for a moment, then gave a knowing nod. "It takes time to adjust."

There was understanding in her voice, something deeper than just politeness. Before Sasha could dwell on it, Léa gestured toward the two men still lost in conversation.

"Léon and Darius always talk forever whenever they meet," she said with a small, conspiratorial smile. "We should take advantage of it."

Sasha wasn't sure why she followed so easily, but she did, letting herself be guided to a table in the far corner. The chair was cool against her skin as she sat across from Léa, the noise of the hall softening around them.

"You're from Mumbai, right?" Léa asked, swirling her wine glass lazily.

Sasha nodded, watching her carefully.

Léa smiled. "You know, Léa isn't my real name."

Sasha blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession. "What?"

Léa's expression softened. "My husband gave me this name," she explained, her gaze turning distant, as if recalling a memory only she could see. "He said it means 'sweet'—just like my personality. I kept it because it held his love for me."

Sasha followed her gaze as it drifted back to Léon. Across the room, he was sipping his wine, his sharp features unreadable—until their eyes met.

And then, something changed.

A quiet, unspoken exchange passed between them.

Léa's lips curved into the smallest, most intimate of smiles.

Léon returned it, his expression softening in a way that made Sasha look away, her stomach twisting with something unfamiliar.

"We were just like you two," Léa admitted, turning her attention back to Sasha.

Sasha stiffened. "You mean he kidnapped you and then won you over?"

The air between them shifted.

For a brief moment, something dark flickered in Léa's expression—a shadow of something deep, something painful. But it was gone before Sasha could grasp it, replaced with a soft chuckle.

"Yeah," Léa said simply, taking another sip of her wine. "He kidnapped me."

Sasha felt something sharp and bitter curl in her chest.

"Strange," she muttered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "I could never fall for someone who took away my freedom."

Léa exhaled, setting her glass down with deliberate care. Instead of arguing, she smiled and said, "'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.'"

Sasha frowned. "What?"

Léa's smile widened. "Shakespeare," she clarified. "It means love isn't about logic. It doesn't fall for appearances or circumstances—it falls for the heart. And hearts… they have a way of finding each other."

Sasha's throat felt tight.

"But love is about mutual respect," she whispered, almost to herself. "And sometimes… it isn't given a choice."

Léa studied her carefully.

Then, instead of pushing further, she simply nodded, as if acknowledging something unspoken between them.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that held weight, that carried meaning.

And in that silence, Sasha felt something shift.

Something deep, something unsettling.

Something she wasn't ready to name yet.