His eyes never strayed from my face as he took the vows. And when he said 'I do', it sounded like he had tasted a bitter drink.

My devilishly handsome husband Daniel Rutherford wasn't the one to choose me as his bride. It was his tyrant father Alfred Rutherford, who bought my virginity to put a check on his son's bad boy persona. It was my father's terminal illness that forced me to list myself in the bride catalog. And it was our twisted fate that bound us as husband and wife.

The words 'I do' felt like a torture when I spelt them, wincing internally with the shame that I had officially become a trophy wife.

I stole a glance at his smoldering face, his eyes as sharp as his cheekbones. He was tall and imposing in a way that made him stand out in his black tux as the one and only. What made me recoil inside was his stiff and proud posture, as angry as unaffected by the ceremony at his disposal. It was his wedding, yet he appeared to be attending a funeral.

Maybe, it was the funeral of my dream to find true love in marriage. I was marrying a stranger who knew my shameful truth. The truth is that I only married him for money.

Rules of our marriage were simple and I was well trained before I joined the institution. I was well aware of what's and how's of the expectations.

Our gazes clashed as the officiator pronounced us man and wife. His eyes were a stormy ocean and remarkably dispassionate. He raised a brow when I blinked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

To say that I was nervous would be an understatement. I was terrified of my new beginning as his wife. My palms were sweating my distress and my legs were giving up on my strength.

More so when I guessed he was not happy about the wedding. He had hidden it well in front of the guests and smiled through the photo ops but there at the altar as he said his forced vows and looked at me with utterly stoic and cold eyes, I knew he would never hide it from me. In fact, the scowl on his face spoke of his distaste.

His half-mast eyes spoke of his boredom as his five younger brothers chanted 'Kiss The Bride' in a chorus. My face heated up in anticipation and fear of tasting his vile of hatred towards me in that kiss. My first kiss was going to be the venomous one.

My groom shifted his gaze towards my lips and wetted his own. I turned to kiss him when he bent down, tilting my head back, back, back to look at his face.

His lips had that goddamn scowl, the corner of his mouth showing the conflict within him but his eyes were hard and unreadable.

I closed mine, trying to get away with the fact that he didn't want me as his wife yet he sealed the deal with our very first kiss.

It was the briefest of moments, the light, feathery touch of lips, but he owned me for a lifetime with that.