Emilia
I can't remember the last time I felt truly calm. Maybe it was before the first cruel word my stepmother ever spoke to me. Or before I realized that I would never be enough in her eyes. Today, though, I know that any hope of peace is gone.
The wedding dress is tight around me—too tight—and yet, I don't know if it's the gown or the suffocating weight of what's about to happen that makes it feel like I'm being smothered. The white satin, once a symbol of joy and new beginnings, now feels like a shroud. My heart is heavy in my chest, the beating too loud in my ears, but it doesn't matter. It's happening.
As I stare into the mirror, I barely recognize the girl in the reflection. My hair is swept up in delicate curls, a veil hanging down my back like a ghost trailing behind me. I can see my own fingers trembling as I reach up to touch the soft lace along my throat. The veil feels heavy, as if it's not just a piece of fabric but an entire future that has been woven into my destiny. A future I never chose.
My stepmother appears in the doorway, her face a mask of satisfaction, but there's something else in her eyes too—something that looks almost like triumph. She steps into the room with the grace of someone who's done this a thousand times. For a moment, I wonder if she's imagining Lillian in my place, walking down the aisle in the same dress. The thought almost makes my stomach churn.
"Well, you're ready," she says, her voice flat, dismissive. "It's time."
I nod, the motion mechanical, as if I'm agreeing to something that no longer holds meaning for me. A force of habit. The dress, the veil, the whole scene—it feels like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. But it's real. It's happening.
I try to take a step forward, but she stops me with a sharp look. "Don't get any ideas. There's no running away. No escaping this. We've already sent word ahead. Your marriage is sealed."
Her words sting like a slap to my face, but I don't react. What's the point? My fate was sealed the moment Lillian decided she wouldn't go through with the wedding. Now, I am merely a pawn, an inconvenient but necessary replacement. It doesn't matter that I never asked for this, never wanted any part of it. I was simply the closest option, the one they could manipulate into taking her place without question.
She motions for the guards outside the door, and they step forward—two large, silent men who seem more like statues than people. They stand beside me, their presence unnerving, but I've learned not to show fear. I don't have the luxury of showing fear anymore.
One of them opens the door, and I step into the hall, the sound of my heels clicking sharply on the marble floor, echoing around me. Each step seems to take me further away from the life I once knew, further from my own identity. I walk with my head held high, my hands gripping the edges of my dress, the weight of my new role bearing down on me like a storm cloud.
"Don't look so frightened," my stepmother says, her voice dripping with disdain. "You'll make a fine bride. The Blackwoods will have no complaints. And neither will anyone else. Just do as you're told."
I don't answer. What's the point? She's already made up her mind about everything. I'm just a placeholder, nothing more.
We walk through the grand hallway, the grandiose paintings of long-dead ancestors watching us as we pass. Each one feels like a silent judgment, their painted eyes following my every move. I can feel their disapproval like a weight on my shoulders, but I force myself to keep walking.
As we approach the entrance to the chapel, I can hear the faint murmur of voices from inside—guests, murmuring among themselves, waiting for the bride. It hits me then, just how much of a spectacle this is. I'm not a bride in the traditional sense. I'm not even Lillian's replacement, at least not in the way the world would see it. I'm simply someone who is here to fill a role that was never meant for me.
The doors swing open with a groan, and the sight of the chapel strikes me like a physical blow. The space is stunning, filled with grand pews, floral arrangements, and an altar bathed in golden light. The guests are all seated, their faces turned toward the front in eager anticipation, but none of them look at me. They don't care who I am. To them, I am nothing more than a girl in a wedding dress, a stand-in for the real bride.
I can't breathe. My chest is tight, my body trembling, but I force myself to take each step forward. It's too late to turn back now. It's all I can do to keep my composure as I move down the aisle, my eyes focused on the altar. The guests don't matter. The rumors don't matter. None of it does. I'm here for one reason: to marry a man I've never met, one whose reputation precedes him like a shadow.
The chapel doors close behind me with a heavy thud, sealing me in.
I catch a glimpse of my stepmother's satisfied smirk from the corner of my eye, but I don't allow myself to look at her. I don't want to know what she's thinking. I don't want to acknowledge the way she's sold me into this marriage like a piece of property.
And then, finally, I see him.
At the altar, standing tall with his back straight, is a man. A man I've heard about for weeks—Damien Blackwood, the "crippled monster" my sister refused to marry.
But as I stand there, gazing at him, my breath catches in my throat. He isn't crippled. He isn't disfigured. He isn't a monster at all.
Damien Blackwood is, quite simply, the most handsome man I've ever seen.
His dark hair falls in controlled waves around his face, his jaw sharp and strong, his eyes—piercing blue—seem to draw me in with an intensity I can't explain. There's a quiet power to him, a confidence that radiates from every inch of his posture. His broad shoulders fill out the dark suit he's wearing, and the way he stands, relaxed but composed, sends a wave of heat rushing through me.
This is the man I'm supposed to marry?
The man I'm bound to now, whether I want to be or not?
I blink, but I can't tear my gaze away from him. I know I should look down, avoid his stare, but I can't. He hasn't moved an inch, not even to acknowledge me as I walk toward him.
The air between us is thick with anticipation, and my mind is spinning. What am I supposed to do now? I was prepared for a man broken in body and spirit, a man who would be as trapped in his life as I am in mine. But this man—this stranger—is nothing like what I was led to believe.
And then, as I stand before him, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me, he looks at me—really looks at me. His gaze is intense, appraising, as if he's searching for something hidden deep within me.
I feel exposed, vulnerable, unsure of everything. My hands shake, my heart pounds, but I stand still, trying to summon the strength to face this man, this fate that has been forced upon me.
"Emilia," he says, his voice deep and smooth, like a rich melody I've never heard before. "I assume we're ready to begin?"
His words hang in the air, but I can't answer. I'm too stunned, too lost in the storm of my thoughts.
And in that moment, I realize—this is only the beginning.
But where it will lead, I have no idea.