Four hours later, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me from the antique mirror in St. Margaret's Westminster bridal suite. Helena had worked a transformation so complete that even I questioned whether I was looking at Seraphina or Isabelle.
My once-dark chestnut hair now gleamed the same silver-blonde as my half-sister's, cut and styled in soft waves that framed my face perfectly. Colored contact lenses had turned my green eyes the signature Blackwood gray. Professional makeup had subtly altered the shape of my features, making my nose appear slightly more upturned, my cheekbones more pronounced.
The wedding dress—Isabelle's custom Valentino creation—fit as if it had been made for my body instead of hers. The ivory silk clung to my curves while the cathedral train pooled behind me like liquid moonlight. Thousands of tiny pearls and crystals caught the light with every breath, making me shimmer like something out of a fairy tale.
"You look perfect," Helena whispered, adjusting my veil for the hundredth time. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked, betraying the calm expression she wore for my benefit. "No one will ever know."
Through the Gothic windows of the historic church, I could see the crowds gathering outside. Paparazzi lined the streets behind police barriers, their cameras flashing like lightning strikes. News vans from every major European network had claimed spots along the medieval stone walls, their satellite dishes reaching toward the gray London sky like modern gargoyles.
This wasn't just a wedding—it was the social event of the decade.
"Miss Blackwood?" A young woman in a discrete black suit appeared in the doorway. "I'm Sarah, the wedding coordinator. We're ready for you."
My stomach lurched. Miss Blackwood. In just moments, I would walk down the aisle and become Mrs. Silverstone under a name that wasn't even mine.
Helena squeezed my hands gently. "Remember, child—you are stronger than you know. Trust your instincts."
The coordinator led me through corridors that had witnessed centuries of British history. These stone walls had seen the weddings of prime ministers and princesses, the funerals of poets and kings. Now they would witness the greatest deception of my life.
As we approached the massive oak doors that separated me from my fate, the sound hit me first—a low murmur of hundreds of conversations, the rustle of expensive fabric, the soft notes of a string quartet playing something classical and ethereal.
The doors opened, and my breath caught in my throat.
St. Margaret's Westminster had been transformed into something that belonged in a fantasy novel. Thousands of white roses cascaded from every Gothic arch, their petals scattered across the ancient stone floors like snow. Candles flickered in tall silver candelabras, casting dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The altar was draped in ivory silk and surrounded by arrangements of peonies, orchids, and lilies that must have cost more than most people's annual salaries.
But it was the guests that truly took my breath away.
The church was packed with the most powerful people in Europe's supernatural community. I recognized faces from business magazines and society pages—Alpha families who controlled vast territories, vampire clans that had accumulated wealth for centuries, fae nobility whose bloodlines stretched back to the dawn of civilization.
The front row alone held enough combined power to topple governments.
As the wedding march began—a haunting melody performed by the London Symphony Orchestra—every head turned toward me. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed my slow progress down the aisle, and I heard the whispers of approval that rippled through the congregation like waves.
"Stunning."
"The perfect match."
"What a beautiful bride."
If only they knew they were praising Seraphina, not Isabelle.
Halfway down the aisle, my gaze found Victor in the front row. My father's expression was one of cold satisfaction as he watched his plan unfold perfectly. Beside him sat Eleanor Blackwood, my grandmother, whose sharp gray eyes missed nothing. She gave me the slightest nod of approval—the closest thing to affection I had ever received from her.
But then I saw him, and everything else faded into background noise.
Damon Silverstone stood at the altar like a dark angel carved from marble and shadow.
He was taller than I had expected—easily six feet three inches of pure masculine power contained within a midnight black morning coat that had clearly been tailored by London's finest craftsmen. His hair was dark as a moonless night, styled in a way that looked effortlessly perfect but probably cost more than Helena's monthly salary. His face belonged in a Renaissance sculpture—all sharp angles and classical proportions that spoke of generations of aristocratic breeding.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart.
They were the deepest ocean blue I had ever seen, like storm-tossed waves beneath a winter sky. Cold, calculating, and completely focused on me as I approached the altar. There was an intelligence in those eyes that suggested he missed nothing and forgot even less.
This was not a man who had built his empire through luck or inheritance. This was a predator who had clawed his way to the top through pure will and ruthless determination.
As I drew closer, I could see the details that photographs had never captured. His hands were large and capable, with long fingers that spoke of both artistry and strength. A thin white scar ran along his left temple—evidence of some past battle or accident that he had survived and learned from.
But what made my wolf Luna sit up and take notice was the power that radiated from him like heat waves off summer pavement. His Alpha aura was unlike anything I had ever encountered—not the crude dominance that Victor wielded like a club, but something far more sophisticated and dangerous. It was power that didn't need to announce itself because everyone in its presence simply knew.
When he extended his hand to help me up the altar steps, I caught a glimpse of intricate black tattoos that disappeared beneath his sleeve. The partial design I could see looked ancient—geometric patterns that seemed to shift and move in the candlelight, like they held secrets older than the church itself.
"Isabelle," he said quietly, his voice a deep baritone with the faintest trace of a Scottish accent that spoke of Highland castles and centuries-old traditions.
The sound of my sister's name on his lips sent an unexpected pang through my chest. He thought he was marrying someone else entirely.
"Damon," I replied, surprised that my voice remained steady despite the chaos of emotions swirling through me.
The Archbishop of Canterbury himself had agreed to perform the ceremony—another sign of just how powerful and connected the Silverstone family was. As he began the ancient words that would bind two strangers together in holy matrimony, I found myself studying Damon's profile.
There was something almost otherworldly about him, as if he existed on a plane slightly removed from ordinary mortals. When he turned to face me for the exchange of vows, those storm-blue eyes seemed to look straight through to my soul.
"Do you, Isabelle Margaret Blackwood, take Damon Alexander Silverstone to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The question hung in the air like a sword waiting to fall. This was my last chance to reveal the truth, to stop this elaborate deception before it went too far.
Instead, I heard myself say, "I do."
"Do you, Damon Alexander Silverstone, take Isabelle Margaret Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
His response was immediate and certain. "I do."
The rings—platinum bands that caught the candlelight like captured stars—were exchanged with hands that were surprisingly gentle. When Damon slipped the wedding band onto my finger, his touch sent an unexpected jolt of electricity up my arm.
"You may kiss the bride," the Archbishop announced.
This was it. The moment that would seal my fate as Mrs. Silverstone.
Damon stepped closer, his hands settling on my waist with surprising tenderness. For a heartbeat, we simply looked at each other—two strangers bound together by circumstances beyond our control.
Then his lips touched mine, and the world exploded.
The kiss was supposed to be ceremonial, a brief formality for the sake of the hundreds of witnesses. Instead, it felt like lightning striking the same place twice. Heat rushed through my veins like liquid fire, and Luna howled with recognition in my mind—a sound of pure, primal joy that she had only been waiting her entire life to make.
Mate. The word echoed through every cell of my body with the force of an earthquake.
The mate bond snapped into place between us like a steel cable, invisible but unbreakable. I could feel Damon's shock through the connection—his careful control cracking as the same realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave.
His hands tightened on my waist, and for a moment I thought he might deepen the kiss right there in front of God, the Archbishop, and three hundred of Europe's most powerful supernatural beings.
Instead, he pulled back with obvious effort, his storm-blue eyes wide with something that looked like wonder mixed with confusion.
The congregation erupted into applause, completely unaware that they had just witnessed the formation of a true mate bond—something that happened perhaps once in a thousand arranged marriages.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Archbishop announced with obvious pleasure, "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Damon Silverstone!"
As we turned to face the crowd, Damon offered me his arm with the same perfect courtesy he had shown throughout the ceremony. But I could feel the tension humming through him, the questions burning behind his composed facade.
The recessional music began—triumphant notes that seemed to announce the dawn of a new age. As we walked back down the aisle together, I caught glimpses of the guests' faces. Smiles, applause, nods of approval from people who thought they were witnessing the perfect union of two great supernatural families.
If only they knew the truth.
We were halfway to the doors when I saw him.
Adrian Cross stood in the back of the church, his golden hair catching the candlelight as he pushed through the crowd toward us. His handsome face was twisted with an expression I had never seen before—a mixture of betrayal, rage, and something that looked disturbingly like obsession.
Our eyes met across the sea of wedding guests, and I saw the exact moment recognition hit him. His brown eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with dangerous intent.
He knew. Somehow, despite Helena's perfect transformation, Adrian had recognized me.
"Seraphina!" he called out, his voice cutting through the congratulations and music like a blade. "Stop!"
Several guests turned to look, confusion rippling through the crowd. Who was Seraphina? Why was Adrian Cross, heir to one of London's most prominent families, disrupting the wedding of the year?
Damon's hand tightened on my arm, and I felt his Alpha power flare in response to the perceived threat. Through our new mate bond, I could sense his protective instincts rising like a tide.
"Keep walking," he murmured in my ear, his voice carrying a note of command that made my wolf want to submit immediately. "Whatever this is, we handle it together."
But Adrian wasn't giving up. He pushed through the crowd with increasing desperation, calling my real name again and again. "Seraphina! You can't do this! You know what we mean to each other!"
The church doors loomed ahead like the gates to a new world. If we could just reach them, we could escape into the waiting limousine and leave this confrontation for another day.
"Please," Adrian's voice cracked with emotion. "Don't let them force you into this! I love you!"
His final desperate plea rang through the ancient stone church, and I felt every guest turn to stare. Whispers began to spread like wildfire through the congregation.
"Who is Seraphina?"
"What is he talking about?"
"Is there something wrong with the bride?"
Damon's jaw clenched, but he kept us moving forward with steady determination. His Alpha authority created a bubble of space around us, making the crowd part like the Red Sea.
As we finally reached the doors and stepped out into the gray London afternoon, I could hear Adrian still calling my name from somewhere in the chaos behind us.
The waiting Rolls-Royce was a sanctuary of leather and silence. As we settled into the back seat and the driver pulled away from the curb, Damon finally spoke.
"Well, Mrs. Silverstone," he said quietly, his storm-blue eyes fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity. "It seems we have quite a few things to discuss."
The mate bond thrummed between us like a living thing, making me hyper-aware of his every breath, every slight movement. Whatever happened next, there was no going back.
I was no longer Seraphina Blackwood, the forgotten illegitimate daughter.
I was Mrs. Damon Silverstone, bound to one of the most powerful men in Europe by forces neither of us had expected or prepared for.
And somewhere behind us, Adrian Cross was undoubtedly planning his next move.
End of Chapter 2