**Isabella**
You know what they say about marriage? That it's the *most magical day* of your life. The day you're "supposed" to feel butterflies, joy, all that fairy-tale bullshit. Well, screw that. I, Isabella Alexander, don't feel any of it. Not a single flutter of excitement. Not a hint of happiness. It's like the whole damn thing's a joke. And it's got me twisted in knots, choking on the falseness of it all.
Everyone's staring at me like I'm some kind of ghost, like I'm about to snap and go full-on serial killer. I swear, I can feel their eyes on me, cold and judgmental, as if they're just waiting for me to break. Like they think I'm about to lose my mind and start tearing this place apart. Why are they looking at me like that? Like I'm some kind of monster for *just* existing in this moment? It's supposed to be "special," right? Well, right now, it feels like I'm suffocating in a sea of expectations I never asked for. Not a single part of this day feels like *me*.
If I could just eat them all up—the judgment, the looks, the whispers—I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'd tear them apart with my mind if I could. But I can't. So I sit here, as still as I can, pretending it's all fine. Pretending this moment doesn't feel like a damn nightmare.
Marrying Matteo Antonio? Ha. That sure as hell wasn't my choice. I don't even know the guy, not really. Not the way a wife should. But that doesn't matter, does it? Here I am, standing at the edge of a cliff, the whole world watching, waiting for me to take a leap into something I didn't even choose.
This damn *veil* I'm standing under, these eyes boring into me, watching me like I'm a freak show. Not my choice. Hell, none of this—none of this *shit*—is my choice.
I feel like a damn psychopath, talking to myself like some crazy person, running these thoughts around in my head like a broken record. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I even here? What am I doing? I don't belong in this world. This whole damn charade doesn't feel real.
But I'm stuck. I'm here, standing on this stage, playing a role I never signed up for. Like some kind of animal trapped in a cage, forced to perform when I'd rather rip the bars apart and run far away.
You know those mafia novels I used to devour as a kid? The ones filled with dark, twisted loyalty and impossible choices? The ones where the heroine's dragged into some underworld she can't escape, tied by blood to men who'd slit throats to protect their empire, but she's powerless to break free?
Yeah, those novels. I used to read them and think, *This is just a story. It's all fiction. It could never be real.*
And then… BOOM. I woke up. And holy hell... I'm living it. I didn't even realize it at first, but this—this right here—is my story. The drama. The tension. The impossible choices. It was never fiction. It was my future, and now that future's slapping me across the face. All those high-stakes decisions, the manipulation, the lies—it was never made-up nonsense on some page. It was a warning. A preview of my reality.
In those books, the women were always struggling, stuck between family loyalty and their own desires, tangled up in a web of power they could never escape. They had no choice. It was like the game was rigged from the start, and no matter how much they fought, the rules always won.
And that's the thing. That's the *real* truth about being born into this world—the game's already rigged. You're born into a family like this, and before you even know it, you're already playing a part. A role you didn't ask for. You think you have control? Think again.
"Hello? Anyone there? No? Just me and my crazy thoughts. Great."
"Ma'am, the master is here. You should really get ready now," a servant says, his voice trembling like he's just seen a ghost, and his face twisted in something that screams *panic.*
As if I cared. Honestly, who is this Matteo guy? I don't even know him. But I've heard enough. The whispers alone are enough to make my skin crawl. They say he's a ruthless bastard with a reputation for being a relentless womanizer. The stories about him are like gossip at a tea party—over-the-top, exaggerated, but still enough to send a shiver down my spine.
But here I am. Sitting in this chair like I've got some kind of invisible force field around me. Defiant. Arms crossed. Heart set. I couldn't care less about his opinions—or anyone else's, for that matter. There's no way in hell I'm marrying that man, no matter how much pressure they put on me. My mind is made up. And nothing, *nothing* will change that.
"Sir, she refused."
Those words hang in the air like a death sentence, cold and final. They hit me before the servant even steps into the room.
And then… silence.
Not the kind of silence that's peaceful. No, this silence wraps itself around my chest like a vice, choking me, pressing down so hard that for a second, I can't breathe. It's deafening. I can't hear anything except the pounding of my heart, racing in my ears like a war drum. Each beat thunders louder, faster, until my whole body tenses. I freeze. Every muscle in my body seizes, like I'm stuck in some twisted nightmare I can't escape.
And then… that sound.
*Bang.*
The sickening, gut-wrenching thud of something heavy hitting the floor. A body. A life. Snuffed out in an instant. It was brutal. Sharp. Final. The kind of sound that burrows itself into your memory, making sure you never forget it. It was the sound of something irreversible. Something done.
I didn't even see him—this Matteo—enter the room. But I could feel him. His presence. Like a heavy weight pressing down on me, suffocating me, demanding something I couldn't give. Just because I refused. Just because I dared to say no.
Who was he? What was he to me? The man was a stranger. But in that moment, it didn't matter. His actions—his choices—spoke louder than anything I could have understood. He was here. And everything had just shifted. Tilted. Into something grotesque. Something irreversible.
Numbness spread through me like ice. My body went cold. I couldn't move. I couldn't even feel my limbs anymore. My mind went into freefall. Panic clawed at my throat, suffocating me. But I couldn't move.
A servant was dead.
And it was because of me.
Because I refused to wear a damn wedding dress. It was too much to process. Too much to understand. My world, the one I thought I knew, was crumbling. Shattering. The pieces falling to the ground, and I was stuck, unable to do anything but watch as everything I thought I could control slipped through my fingers.
I wanted to scream. To run. To escape. But my legs wouldn't move. I was trapped. And the worst part? I had no idea what came next.
How could I?
The rules had changed. The world was no longer mine to control. It was devouring me, piece by piece, until I was nothing but another casualty of this twisted game. If only I were that servant. If I had been the one lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath me, maybe this nightmare would've ended right then.
No more choices. No more fear. No more pretending I could change anything.
But I wasn't. I was still here. Still breathing. Still trapped in this suffocating world, watching it unravel. Watching it swallow everything whole.
A life had been taken—all because I refused to wear a damn wedding dress.
And yet… I was the one still standing, still trapped in this twisted game. I wanted to scream, to beg for the same mercy the servant had been denied. It was all too much. Too overwhelming. Too much to bear.
If I were that servant… at least the agony would stop. At least the fear would end.
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