DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE WEDDING

Ethel Brady arrived at the maximum-security prison shrouded in morning fog. Her most trusted driver accompanied her in silence. The old vehicle's wheels crunched over gravel as they halted before the high iron gates of Artshell Maximum Security Penitentiary. The air smelled of rust and rain.

The warden, a pale man with eyes devoid of warmth, escorted her through the dim corridors. 

"Mrs. Brady," the director said, "you may wait here if you wish. We've arranged refreshments."

Ethel gave a slow, disdainful shake of her head. "I require nothing, thank you. Lead me to him."

When she entered the cell, the shadows seemed to recede for a moment—as though the walls themselves acknowledged her presence. Her gaze fell upon Ryan Dagon. His stillness was statuesque; the low light carved his face in austere contrasts.

Ethel thought, He is even more handsome than Tybalt was in his youth. No wonder my daughter fell into this dark enchantment.

Ryan rose, his chains faintly rattling.

"Mrs. Brady," he greeted solemnly. "It's an honor to meet you."

Ethel sat opposite him, her eyes assessing him as one would a dangerous work of art.

"I met your father many years ago. He was a remarkable man."

Ryan's lips twisted faintly. "He was a successful man," he replied. "But not a kind one."

Ethel's laughter, quiet and crystalline, echoed softly against the stone.

"Honesty. That I admire. You are more dangerous than your father ever was—not because of cruelty, but because you understand remorse."

Ryan inclined his head slightly, uncertain whether to take her words as a compliment or a warning.

"When is the wedding?" she asked.

"In a week," Ryan replied. "You are, of course, invited."

"It will be my honor," Ethel said. "And my curse, perhaps. Let us make it... as graceful as possible, under these dreadful circumstances."

She rose, her perfume mingling with the scent of iron. "I expect a grandchild, Mr. Dagon," she added almost tenderly. "Sooner than later. I shall see you next week."

Ryan smiled faintly. "Until then."

Allon Blake, the Commissioner, lifted his gaze when Theolinda entered his office. She looked composed, but her eyes carried a hidden flame.

"Detective Brady, what brings you here?"

"I came to inform you I'm getting married," she said. "I'll need a few days' leave."

The Commissioner blinked, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "Married? To whom?"

"To Ryan Dagon."

The color drained from his face. "Detective Brady, have you gone mad? The man is a sadist!"

Theo's voice, calm yet cutting, filled the room. "I won't allow you to speak about my future husband like that. You don't know him."

"With all due respect, Brady, you've lost your mind."

She leaned forward, eyes glinting with an inner defiance. "Rehabilitation exists, sir. I've seen it. He's changed."

Blake sighed deeply. "It's your life. But if you're determined to go through with this... it will be a private ceremony. No press. No scandal."

"Agreed," she said, and left him staring into the silence she left behind.

Telling Rogers was harder.

"Rogers," she began softly, "I wanted to tell you I'll be away for a few days."

He looked up from his reports. "You ill?"

"No. I'm getting married."

The words struck him like a slap. The coffee cup fell from his hand, splashing across the desk. "What did you just say? To whom?"

Theo smiled sadly. "To Ryan Dagon."

Rogers froze. "This is a nightmare."

"Why, Rogers? Because you care?" she asked quietly. "You never said so."

He wiped the mess on the desk with shaking hands. "You're marrying a beast, Brady."

"I'm marrying a man I know," she answered firmly. "The rest is none of your concern."

Her voice softened for a moment. "Goodbye, Rogers."

When she left, he sat staring at the empty doorway, feeling something inside him collapse. He didn't understand why his chest hurt so much.

The day of the wedding arrived under a sky heavy with storm clouds. The warden's office had been transformed into a strange parody of celebration: white roses placed in chipped vases, a lace cloth draped over the judge's table. The money of two powerful families—Brady and Dagon—had bent the rules of iron and law.

Ryan stood beside Theolinda, both in formal attire, their faces pale under the fluorescent lights. Ethel Brady and Edmund Highstorm stood as witnesses, their expressions grave.

Ryan took Theolinda's hand. "I know this isn't the wedding you deserve," he said. "But it's all I can give. I was a wicked man once... yet you've shown me light where I thought only darkness remained. Will you marry me?"

Theo looked at him, her heart torn between reason and ruin. "Yes. I will."

They exchanged rings—silver bands gleaming faintly under the dim light.

"I, Theolinda Brady," she said, "saw beyond the criminal, into the man capable of love. A man haunted, yes, but real. Will you marry me?"

Ryan smiled, almost painfully. "I will."

"You may now kiss the bride," Ethel said softly.

Their lips met—a kiss that tasted of salt and tears and the faint, metallic scent of redemption.

Days later, Ryan summoned Mia to the prison.

She arrived radiant, unaware of what awaited her. "You wanted to see me, Ryan?" she said, smiling.

He didn't return it. His eyes were heavy, distant.

"Mia," he began, "please, sit down. There's something I need to tell you."

A silence stretched, tense and electric.

"I got married."

Her smile froze. For a moment, she couldn't speak. The air between them grew colder. The faint hum of the prison lights became unbearable.

"To whom?" she whispered, though she already knew.

Ryan looked away. "To Theolinda Brady."

The world seemed to tilt around her.

And somewhere, in the distance, thunder rolled.