To Have and to Hate

~HADLEY~

The suffocating scent of thousands of white lilies filled the cavernous cathedral air, but all I could focus on was the heavy, burning heat of Beckett Calloway’s palm pressed flush against mine. I stood beside him at the ornate altar, my fingers trapped in his strong grip, and I hated my own body for betraying me. Tiny, traitorous sparks of electricity fired up my arm from that single point of skin-to-skin contact. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my throat. My nervous system clearly had not received the memo that the man holding my hand was the enemy. He was the man who had openly declared war on me just hours ago. He was the man who already belonged to someone else.

I clamped my jaw shut and forced myself to breathe. I scolded my racing heart into submission. This meant nothing. He meant nothing. This was a business transaction wrapped in expensive white silk and false promises.

The ceremony hall was a packed, glittering spectacle. Row after row of polished mahogany pews held the people who mattered to our families and their empires. Hockey league executives, billionaire business partners, and distant relatives who had flown across the globe just to witness this merger. Camera lenses flashed in a relentless strobe effect near the grand entrance. This was supposed to be a flawless display of power, a unified front designed to bury the simmering, mutual resentment festering between the bride and groom.

I let my gaze sweep over the sea of seated guests, searching the faces in the crowd. I was looking for the one person I simultaneously dreaded and desperately wanted to see.

Garrett.

And his new wife, Whitney.

There was no sign of them in the front rows. A wave of cool relief washed over my tense shoulders, but a smaller, much more bitter part of my soul felt cheated. I wanted Garrett to sit there and watch me step into a new life. I wanted to see his face when I swore myself to another man. Even if he skipped the ceremony, I knew he would watch the media coverage on his phone later, just like I had tortured myself watching the footage of his lavish wedding to Whitney.

Beckett’s rough fingers shifted against my skin, pulling my attention back to the altar. I stole a sideways glance at him. He stared straight ahead at the stained-glass window. His jaw was locked tight. His profile was carved from cold, unforgiving stone. If he felt even a fraction of the electric heat pulsing between our joined hands, he refused to show it. His absolute indifference only made the flush creeping up my neck feel more infuriating.

The officiant stepped forward and began reciting the traditional vows.

I repeated the heavy words when prompted, keeping my voice steady. To have and to hold. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. They were just sentences on a page, empty formalities spoken for a captivated audience. Yet, standing in this echoing cathedral with Beckett’s thumb tracing a slow, absent path over my knuckles, the promises carried a terrifying weight. It felt as though the universe was carving the vows into stone, ignoring the fact that neither of us meant a single syllable.

Then it was Beckett’s turn.

His voice resonated through the microphone, low, rough, and perfectly controlled. He swore his life to me without a single tremor in his tone. He never looked at me. Not once. He kept his icy blue eyes fixed on the priest. I swallowed the lump in my throat and told myself I preferred it this way. I did not want him pretending to look at me with love. I did not want him faking devotion just for the cameras.

A sudden, restless murmur rippled through the back of the cathedral.

I shifted my gaze past the officiant's shoulder. A gasp lodged in my throat.

Garrett.

He stood near the heavy oak doors in a sharp dark suit, with Whitney clinging tightly to his arm. They had arrived intentionally late to ensure maximum disruption. Whitney had always thrived on stealing the spotlight. It was the exact toxic trait that led her to sleep her way through half the hockey roster, and the exact reason she had chosen to wear a blindingly flashy, inappropriate dress to my wedding.

Garrett ignored the whispers of the crowd. His eyes locked directly onto mine across the long expanse of the velvet aisle runner. For a fleeting second, I saw raw shock paralyze his features. Then his expression twisted into something much darker. A storm of pure, possessive fury darkened his gaze. It was a violent, jealous rage he had absolutely no right to feel anymore. He had made his choice. He had thrown me away.

A cold spike of satisfaction pierced my chest. That dark, furious glare was exactly the reaction I had prayed for.

The officiant smiled warmly at the crowd and closed his leather book. "You may kiss the bride."

A heavy hush fell over the cathedral. The silence stretched a beat too long. If Beckett refused to touch me now, the humiliation would be unbearable. Garrett and Whitney were standing right there, waiting for the illusion to crack, waiting for a pathetic display they could laugh about over champagne.

I refused to give them the satisfaction.

I did not give myself a single second to second-guess my actions. I pivoted on my heels, rose high onto my toes, grabbed the lapels of Beckett’s tuxedo, and smashed my mouth directly against his.

It was meant to be a calculated strike. A flawless, theatrical performance. A sharp, visual weapon designed to prove to Garrett that I had moved on and that he was nothing to me anymore.

But the violent collision of my lips against Beckett's changed the atmosphere in the room instantly.

Beckett went dead still. His massive frame turned rigid under my hands, as if the impact had shocked the air straight out of his lungs. A heartbeat later, a low, guttural groan vibrated deep within his broad chest.

He dropped my hand. His heavy palm clamped down hard on the curve of my waist, his fingers digging possessively into the silk of my gown.

His other hand swept up, his thumb sliding along my jawline to angle my face upward. He took absolute control.

I gasped into his mouth, utterly unprepared for the retaliation.

There was nothing polite or performative about his response. His mouth moved over mine with a sudden, scorching heat. His lips were firm, hungry, and relentlessly demanding. When my lips parted in pure shock, he did not hesitate. His tongue swept inside my mouth, tasting me deep and hard, claiming the space like he owned every inch of me.

The kiss escalated with terrifying speed. It turned frantic, desperate, and filthy in a way that liquefied my bones. A heavy, molten heat flooded my stomach and pooled low in my core. I hated how instantly, how eagerly my treacherous body surrendered to his dominance. My fists curled tightly into the crisp fabric of his tuxedo jacket, holding onto his wide shoulders just to keep myself from collapsing onto the marble floor. He kissed me with a raw, brutal hunger, devouring my mouth like the cathedral, the guests, and the cameras had all burned to ash around us.

I was lost in the taste of him. If someone had screamed that the roof was caving in, I would not have broken the seal of our lips.

A horrific, ear-splitting crash shattered the spell.

The deafening sound of heavy ice exploding against the marble floor echoed violently off the vaulted ceilings.

Beckett and I tore apart, our chests heaving, struggling to drag oxygen back into our lungs. My lips were throbbing, swollen and slick from his mouth. I stared up at him in a daze. His icy blue eyes were entirely black with blown-out pupils. An intense, unreadable fire flared in his gaze for a fraction of a second before a heavy iron gate slammed down, masking his expression in cold stone once again.

I whipped my head toward the source of the destruction.

Daphne Winslow stood near the edge of the altar steps, right beside the pedestal that had held the massive, elaborate swan ice sculpture. The frozen masterpiece was gone. The top half had been violently shoved off its base, shattering into thousands of glittering, jagged shards across the pristine floor.

Daphne’s manicured hand was still suspended in the air, trembling slightly from the force of the shove. Her face was bone-pale, contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.

She did not look down at the ruined sculpture.

She looked straight at us. The venom in her eyes was lethal. She looked like she wanted to tear the flesh from my bones for daring to touch him.

Her furious gaze dropped to Beckett’s large hand, which was still gripping my waist. She stared at my swollen mouth. She stared at the non-existent space between our bodies, the physical evidence of the heat still radiating between us.

A collective gasp ripped through the stunned crowd. Event staff sprinted out from the wings with towels, scrambling in a panic to clean up the melting disaster. The flustered officiant cleared his throat loudly, gripping his microphone in a desperate bid to regain control of the derailed ceremony.

But the damage was already done. The volatile cracks in our arrangement were exposed for anyone paying close attention.

I stood frozen at the altar, ignoring the chaos erupting around me. I could still taste the dark, intoxicating flavor of Beckett on my tongue. My pulse roared in my ears for all the wrong reasons. A terrifying realization settled over my trembling frame. The impulsive kiss I had initiated just to make Garrett jealous had not felt like a fake performance for the cameras.

It had felt dangerously real. It had felt like the explosive beginning of something I had never asked for.