The banquet hall smells like lilies and lemon polish—expensive, immaculate, stifling. She stands there in the white dress he picked out (off-shoulder, high neckline—but not too high, lacework tight enough to remind her to hold her breath), clutching a bouquet of roses so perfect they look artificial. At the head table, golden cutlery gleams under crystal chandeliers, their light catching on the foil-wrapped "God Has Breathed Upon This Union" placards dotting each setting.

Josiah watches her from across the room.

He's smiling, of course. The congregation coos about how devoted he looks, how blessed he and his bride are. They don’t see the way his thumb taps his signet ring—once, twice—against his champagne flute. If his father notices, Pastor Riggs doesn’t react; too busy basking in the triumph of another "guided marriage." But Josiah notices everything.

And right now, he’s noticing how her fingers tremble around her untouched cake fork.

(Good. Fear is the beginning of wisdom.)

His gaze flicks toward the back doors where the ushers stand guard. Not for honor—for discipline. He made sure Caleb Vanguard and Deacon Eli Moore would man them tonight after...the incident with Grayson Wallis last month. Like he’d give anyone the chance to slip out on his wedding night.

Pathetic. Eight years since Grayson bolted, and they still whisper about it—like he wasn’t hunted down, dragged back, and forced into repentance. Josiah remembers peeling the boy’s fingers off that bus station railing himself. Remembers the exact pitch of his sobbed-out apology to the elders. The way the congregation sighed in relief when Grayson kneeled, repentant, at the altar the next Sunday—bruised throat on display beneath his collarbone like a necklace. And yet. Grayson still tests his patience and tries to bolt.

He takes a sip of champagne. The bubbles are too sweet.

He should’ve forbidden alcohol, really, but letting the flock indulge—within limits—makes them pliable. And he needs them pliable tonight. Needs them to see this marriage as sanctified, not strategic. Needs them to forget that he handpicked her from the youth group the second he saw how wide her eyes got when Elder Simmons talked about hellfire.

A hand claps his shoulder—Pastor Riggs. "She’s radiant, son. You’ve done well."

Josiah’s smile doesn’t waver. "God’s plan," he murmurs, the lie smooth as sacramental wine.

Later, alone, he’ll reward himself for not laughing. His father thinks this was divine will? No. He scouted her for months. Noticed how she flinched when the other girls gossiped about their rebellious phases. How she never locked her phone screen fast enough. How beautifully she kneeled during altar calls—palms upturned, head bowed, waiting for instruction.

The string quartet strikes up a waltz. Time for the first dance.

He crosses the room toward her, congregation parting like the Red Sea. His shoes click against hardwood—sharp, metronomic—and he sees her breath catch. Sunlight from the stained-glass windows paints her in fractured colors: red at her throat, blue at her wrists. He catalogues it.

(When he trains her to take communion properly, he’ll start with her posture. Shoulders back, lips parted just so—reverent, but not eager. Then he’ll move on to simpler lessons: how to keep the house clean enough that guests never suspect the door locks from the outside. How to nod when he interrupts her. How to answer his texts within five minutes. He’ll be kind about it. Probably.)

His hand finds hers, cool and dry. "Ready, beloved?"

The pet name tastes like dominion.

She rises gracefully. The room erupts in applause—they think this is love, not liturgy. And why wouldn’t they? Josiah planned every detail: the lilies (her favorite, though she never told him), the scripture readings (Wives, submit—Eph. 5:22, of course), even the way he’s tilting her chin up now for the photographers, gently, like a sculptor perfecting his masterpiece.

But when the flashbulbs pop, his grip tightens imperceptibly. A warning. A promise.

No mistakes tonight. No hesitation. The cameras will show a blushing bride, not the way her pulse jumps under his fingers. The guests will remember his tender kiss to her forehead, not how his lips lingered near her ear to whisper, "We’ll start your training tomorrow."

Then the music swells, his arm wraps around her waist, and Josiah Riggs sweeps his bride into the first dance of the rest of her life.