The Wedding That Never Was

My body is a cage

The night was a velvet embrace, warm and intoxicating, draped in the glow of neon dreams.

Julian Drake stood at the window of his hotel suite, the city of Las Vegas sprawled beneath him like a glittering lover. The Strip shimmered, each light a whispered promise, a sweet, poisonous temptation that he couldn't shake. He let the faint hum of the city wash over him, a siren's song that called out to him through the glass, through the years. Once, this city had held him close, wrapped him in its dazzling arms, and whispered that it could give him everything.

But nothing came for free here. Not love. Not glory. Not even your soul.

Julian's fingers traced the rim of his empty glass, its chill an echo of the coldness that had settled deep in his bones. There had been nights—many nights—when this view had been his kingdom, and he, its king. But now the lights felt distant, like stars too far to touch. Beneath the brilliance, there was darkness, lurking behind every shimmer, every flash of brilliance. He knew, better than anyone, how quickly the shine could fade.

His gaze drifted to the card lying on the table, half-hidden in shadow. "The Cathedral." The crimson letters seemed to pulse, as though alive, rich and velvety against the pale cream. There was no sender, no explanation—only the name, a forbidden whisper scrawled in elegant, bleeding script.

It had arrived without a sound, slipped under his door as if carried by the night itself.

"The Cathedral." He had heard the tales—an elusive, luxurious sanctuary where the lost, the broken, the beautiful souls who had fallen from grace, gathered. No one knew who ran it, or if they did, they never said. It was a place for the desperate and the damned, a haven for those with nothing left to lose but everything to wager.

Julian closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the invitation in the air. It pressed against him like a lover's breath on his neck, seductive and dangerous. The kind of danger that made your heart race and your blood burn with the thrill of it. He could feel it—like a distant heartbeat, calling him, pulling him into its fold.

Once, he might have laughed at the idea of such a place. But he wasn't that man anymore. Not since he had lost her. Not since he had gambled away more than just his fortune.

He downed the last of his whiskey, the amber liquid tracing a path of fire down his throat, chasing away the ghosts that had haunted him for too long. But the ghosts weren't gone. They never left, not here. They lingered in the neon lights, in the late-night whispers of strangers, in the perfume of forgotten lovers. They stayed in the corners of his memory, lurking, waiting for him to stumble.

Julian's fingers hovered over the card once more. The Cathedral. Was it redemption he sought? Or simply one last dance with the devil?

Outside, the city breathed, slow and sultry, promising thrills and pleasures that only the night could hold. The invitation felt heavier in his hand now, a weight that pressed against his chest like the lingering touch of a former lover. Was this it? The moment he would fall, or the moment he'd rise again?

The lights beyond the window pulsed like a heartbeat, and his own chest echoed the rhythm. Julian knew there was no going back. Not this time. He slipped the card into the pocket of his jacket, his fingers trembling just enough to betray the calm he wore like armor.

The night, with all its sin and seduction, was waiting.

He grabbed his keys, casting one last glance at the city that had once been his. It would be again, he told himself. After tonight, he would either leave The Cathedral a new man or never leave at all.

And with that thought, Julian Drake stepped into the night.

The streets shimmered under the neon glow, as if the city itself was alive, breathing in unison with the hum of the night. Julian walked, feeling the heat rising from the pavement beneath his feet, the desert air wrapping around him like silk. The card in his pocket felt heavier with every step he took, a promise sealed in ink and whispered desires. The Cathedral—its name beat like a pulse, keeping time with his own.