Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XVII - Bella's Wedding Bells

Vincent could hear every deliberate tick of the watch clasped around his wrist, each one unnervingly in step with the fierce rhythm of his own heartbeat. He stood at the left wing of the altar—framed by fresh pink and white tulips arranged with almost ceremonial elegance—waiting for the woman meant to walk towards him down the long aisle of the château gardens.

The ceremony had been set for half past five, that poised hour when the sun begins its slow descent. Now the sky was a tapestry of fuchsia, orange, and deepening blue—shades that echoed the colour of his own eyes as he checked the time once more, then swept the gardens with a restless gaze, searching for the slightest hint of her presence.

It was ten minutes past the appointed hour, though to him it felt as if he'd been standing there for an eternity.

What if she didn't come?
What if she did something reckless—something irrevocably final—just to escape this union?

For all her brilliance as a doctor, Gabrielle had grown strikingly careless with her own life. He felt a fresh wave of dread when he recalled yesterday—the sudden swerve of a car, her narrow escape. The thought that she might harm herself now tightened his chest until his breath felt shallow.

His impatient tapping of his foot drew her father's attention. Gabriel Davis shot him a look of disapproval, though his own expression remained composed, nearly serene.

"She will come," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then, as though summoned by the very words, a white carriage drawn by two albino stallions rounded into view. The live quartet began to play, a soft, elegant swell of strings marking the official beginning of the ceremony. Gabriel moved briskly to receive his daughter and escort her forward.

But the music did nothing to steady Vincent's nerves.

As Gabrielle stepped out of the carriage and placed her hand in her father's, the world momentarily stilled. She walked slowly, each measured step carrying her closer to him—and with every inch, he felt himself forgetting how to breathe.

Stunned.
There was no other word for it.

Gabrielle looked impossibly regal in a metallic off-white gown that moulded to her figure like a second skin. The Queen Anne neckline, sheer and adorned with Swarovski crystals, rendered her both modest and dangerously captivating. Her Edwardian beauty—soft, classic, exquisitely sculpted—was heightened by makeup so delicate it seemed almost imaginary. Her lashes, long and curled, cast faint shadows with every blink.

And then her eyes met his.

If she hadn't blinked, breaking the spell, he might never have realised she was truly before him.

She turned to her father, accepting his awkward embrace, before Gabriel took her hand and extended it toward Vincent.

Her eyes—a storm of emotion—pleaded with him.
Don't do this.
Don't take my hand.
Don't cement my ruin.

He took it anyway.

Gabriel smiled in satisfaction, pressing their hands together, sealing a fate neither of them had chosen.

"You're a dream," Vincent whispered as he guided her arm into his.

"Don't be my nightmare... please, Vince..." she breathed, her voice trembling, her tears already gathering.

To everyone watching, she looked like any other emotional bride—overwhelmed, elated, deeply in love.
But he knew.
They both knew.

Her tears were not born of joy, but of defeat.
Of grief.
Of anger that swallowed her whole.

He said nothing, only tightened his hold on her hand as they knelt before the priest—an old man dearer to her than most relatives she had ever known. He had married her parents, baptised her, guided her through her first communion. He was almost family.

And here he was now, ready to deliver her into what she believed to be her own personal hell.

Her tears fell freely. The priest smiled warmly, blissfully unaware of the torment unraveling within her. His joy only deepened her despair.

The ceremony began with his emotional introduction.

"We gather here today to witness the beginning of a new life between two souls destined to be one..." His gaze drifted fondly between them. "If anyone wishes to object to this union, speak now."

Gabrielle closed her eyes. Please. Someone. Anyone.

Silence.

The priest continued with a gentle smile, and all his words became nothing more than muffled echoes in her ears. Vincent had to guide her to stand when the time came; she felt hollow, disembodied, as though watching someone else's misery unfold.

Vincent began his vows. The garden seemed to hold its breath.

"I, Vincent Walton, accept Gabrielle Ralph Davis as my lawfully wedded wife..." His voice was steady, warm, heartbreakingly sincere. He spoke of name, heart, soul, love, loyalty—words heavy with meaning she could not bear to hear. "...Gab, you will be the Bella of my life, and I vow to be the man of your dreams."

He slid the ring onto her trembling finger, his thumb brushing the stone as though he could soothe her by touch alone.

Then it was her turn.

The world waited.

Only her sobs answered.

She stared at her hands—hands that once healed, once played music, once wrote poetry, once held dreams she no longer believed in. Now they merely trembled helplessly in his.

"Gab..."
"Gabrielle...?" the priest urged, worry creasing his brow.

She shook her head, a single fragile movement.

The priest paled. So did Vincent's expression—though his eyes never left hers.

A cough cut through the silence. All eyes turned to Gabriel Davis.

He and his daughter held each other's gaze, a silent battlefield between them.

The priest inhaled shakily, pushed by duty into the hardest question of his career.

"Gabrielle Ralph Davis... do you take Vincent Walton to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Her father slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone. She saw it. She saw the number he prepared to dial. The number belonging to the man who held Adrian's mother's life in his hands.

Her breath caught.
Her knees nearly gave way—Vincent caught her before she fell.

Gabriel lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello—"

"I do."
A whisper. Broken. Defeated.
Just loud enough.

He paused, but the threat remained poised, ready.

With trembling fingers, she reached for the ring meant for Vincent. Her hands shook so violently that he guided her gently, helping her slip the band onto his finger.

The priest wiped a tear from his cheek.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."
A beat.
"Vincent, you may kiss your bride."

Vincent looked at her as if she were something terribly precious. He brushed a thumb along her tear-stained cheek, then gently drew her forehead to his lips. He kissed her there—soft, lingering, reverent—as though trying to pour every unspoken truth into her skin.

Then he tilted her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met—husband and wife for the very first time.

"I will love you... now and forever... meine Bella," he murmured in German.

And he leaned in, closing the final inches between them, sealing a vow she had never wanted to make with a kiss he had never wanted to force.