Accidentally His Husband.

Soren's Pov

"You're joking."

The words came out flat and clipped, but the silence that followed told me nobody thought it was funny. Not the wedding planner wringing her hands, not the trembling assistant who looked like she might faint. Not even Clara, my sister, who had never been speechless in her life.

"She's gone," the planner whispered, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. "Celeste... she's not coming."

I stared at her. At the pristine chapel lined with white roses, the chandelier dripping with gold, the flashes of cameras waiting outside. At the hundreds of guests dressed in diamonds, pearls, and ambition.

"She wouldn't," I said. It wasn't hope. Celeste Moreau was many things, vain, spoiled, manipulative, but she was not stupid. She wouldn't walk away from the deal of the century.

But my sister's eyes told me otherwise.

"She's not in the hotel nor in the dressing room, not anywhere." Clara's voice softened. "She left, Soren."

A cold, hollow sound filled my ears. Laughter, except it wasn't laughter, it was the sharp crack of my father's voice echoing in memory. "A Knight never loses control. If you can't control it, you don't deserve it."

My hands curled into fists. Around me, the air seemed to collapse, the whispers rising, the weight of humiliation pressing down. This wedding wasn't just about marriage. It was a merger, it was the board, it was everything I had worked for, standing on the edge of ruin and Celeste had just walked away.

I turned on my heel. My sister called my name, but I didn't stop. The room, the flowers, the whispers were all suffocating. The walls closed in and all I could hear was my father's voice, cold and merciless.

Failure.

The hotel bar was too bright and loud. Crystal glasses clinked, strangers laughed, music pulsed through the air. I welcomed it. Noise was better than silence.

"Whiskey. Neat."

The bartender's hand hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before he nodded. They had seen the news already. Good, let them.

The first glass burned down my throat. So did the second. By the third, the burn was gone. Only numbness remained.

I should have been thinking of solutions, controlling the narrative, and calling the press. Find Celeste. But for the first time in years, I didn't care.

All I could see was the smirk on my father's face when he found out.

By the time I stumbled out into the night, Vegas lights blurred into a haze of gold and red. Laughter spilled from the casinos. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care.

Until I pushed open a door and found myself inside a chapel.

"Stop!"

The shout hit me first, sharp and exasperated. Then a man came into focus, messy dark hair, sharp brown eyes that glittered even under the cheap lights, and a posture that screamed both defiance and exhaustion. He wasn't in a suit like the rest of Vegas' wedding victims. He wore