In The Arms Of The Blind Don

Marrying A Stranger

Chapter One

RAIN

I had always dreamed of a Christmas wedding. Not just any wedding—a magical one. Snowflakes twirling in the air, the faint scent of pine filling the room, and a loving husband waiting at the end of the aisle. Every year, I made the same wish to Santa, whispering it like a little girl and hoping he’d hear me over the chaos of my life. Christmas was the only time I ever felt seen—truly seen—in my family. For one brief season, my father wasn’t buried in his business, my stepmother wasn’t barking orders, and my stepsister wasn’t stealing the spotlight as usual.

But this Christmas wasn’t magical, not the typical cozy holiday like every other. This wasn’t the wedding I had envisioned all my life, and the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle wasn’t the husband I had prayed for.

He was a stranger. A man I had only learned existed yesterday.

Yesterday.

In less than twenty-four hours, my entire life had been flipped upside down. One moment, I was single and planning to make my usual Christmas wish to Santa—another plea for love. The next, I was being told to put on a wedding dress and prepare to marry someone I’d never met.

My sister, the golden child, was supposed to marry him. But when she waltzed into the house with the bombshell news that she was pregnant with her boyfriend’s baby, my stepmother turned to me. Her eyes weren’t filled with concern or regret. No, they were sharp and calculating, as though she was moving pieces on a chessboard.

“You’ll marry him instead,” she said. The words weren’t a suggestion; they were a command.

I had no choice.

And just like that, my Christmas wish was stolen. Replaced with a nightmare wrapped in white satin and lace.

Now, I stood in front of a mirror, staring at a stranger in the reflection. The wedding dress clung to my body like a suffocating second skin, and the veil perched on my head felt more like a noose than a crown. My fingers trembled as they brushed the fabric. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but all I felt was dread, pain, and the overwhelming urge to run as far as I could.

I didn’t know the man waiting for me. I didn’t know if he’d be kind or cruel, gentle or ruthless. All I knew was that my family didn’t care. They had traded me like a pawn, and I didn’t get a say. I never did.

Every Christmas before this, I had clung to the hope that one day my wish would come true—a perfect Christmas wedding to a man who’d love me as fiercely as I longed to be loved.

But this wasn’t that Christmas. This wasn’t that man.

And yet, there I was, about to walk down the aisle to meet a stranger who, by the end of the day, would be my husband.

The distant hum of murmuring guests filtered through the heavy oak doors, pulling me from my thoughts. Someone called my name. The time had come.

Taking a deep breath, I forced my trembling hands to smooth the folds of my gown. It felt heavy, not just from the fabric but from the unshakable truth that this wasn’t my wedding—it had never been mine. I pushed through the doors and into the bright, open hall, and the sheer number of faces staring back at me took my breath away.

As I stepped forward, my father was already waiting for me at the start of the aisle. His face was blank, as unreadable as stone. No smile, no tears—just that cold, emotionless gaze I’d come to know all too well. I didn’t know if he was happy to be forcing me into this marriage or sad that his first daughter has to pay for the first’s mistakes. But he didn’t say a word.

He took my hand silently and walked me down the aisle. A silent walk that felt like the end to everything I knew.

The room was packed. Chandeliers twinkled above, casting golden light on rows of finely dressed guests. The space was decorated with elegant white roses and silver ribbons, a spectacle far more lavish than anything my stepmother would ever spend on me. This wasn’t for me. This was for the daughter she cared about—the one who was supposed to be standing here.

And then, my eyes found him.

The groom.

He stood at the end of the aisle, tall and commanding in a perfectly tailored black suit and dark sunglasses that made him look straight out of my imagination. His hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Even from a distance, I could see his features were flawless, almost unnervingly so. And the way he stood, so composed and unreadable, sent a shiver through me.

Maybe… this could work. Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as I thought. A man like that didn’t need to try to intimidate—he already exuded power. But there was something else there too, a mystery I couldn’t quite place. If nothing else, he was handsome—strikingly so.

“Shall we rise for the bride,” the priest’s voice echoed through the hall.

Bride? I was no bride. I was just a slave being forced into a union.

My feet moved on their own as I walked the aisle, clutching the bouquet as though it was the only thing tethering me to reality. Around me, the murmurs grew louder, a sea of strangers I’d never met but who had come to witness this union. Would they have been here if this marriage had truly been mine to begin with? Of course not. My stepmother wouldn’t have spared the expense. She would’ve kept it small, quiet, insignificant—like me.

I reached the altar and stopped, my breath hitching as the earthy, masculine scent of his cologne washed over me. It was intoxicating, rich and strong, and for a moment, I was almost lightheaded. My knees threatened to buckle, but I forced myself to stand tall.

He didn’t turn to look at me. Not once. But I couldn’t stop staring at him. His face was as perfect as the man I used to picture when I dreamed of this day. He was the embodiment of those fantasies I clung to year after year. But that wasn’t enough. Would he treat me right? Would he love me?

The priest began to speak, his voice a steady drone in the background as my eyes remained locked on the groom… my groom. He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. My fingers tightened around the bouquet, and I struggled to steady my breathing.

Then came the vow.

“Please, join hands,” the priest said.

I stretched out my hand, holding it between us, waiting for him to take it. My heart skipped as his hand moved—but it didn’t come to mine. Instead, it moved aimlessly, searching the air.

Was he blind? A faint smirk curled up my lips with a silent scoff as I watched him.

A lump formed in my throat when he didn’t stop. I stared, confused, as his fingers fumbled in empty space. Then, from behind him, the best man leaned forward and gently guided his hand until it met mine.

The contact was electric, his palm warm and firm against mine. But before I could process the touch, the best man reached up and removed the dark sunglasses perched on my groom’s face.

My breath caught.

His eyes were pale and unfocused, the irises a cloudy gray that gave away the truth. No spark of life resided there—only the emptiness of someone who couldn’t see.

He was blind.

A wave of shock crashed over me, and I felt my chest tighten. He was blind. I was marrying a man who couldn’t see me, couldn’t meet my gaze, couldn’t do any of the things I used to imagine when I dreamed of a husband.

My stomach churned. How much worse could this day possibly get?