The first thing I heard was the music, it was elegant, delicate strings floating through the air like a lullaby before the slaughter.
The kind of sound meant to mask fear. To dress up cruelty in a tuxedo and call it tradition. Then came the scent of roses, hundreds of them, thick and sweet, trying to bury the rot underneath this entire event. The smell of old money. Of power draped in white.
And then I saw her.
Giulianna.
Frozen halfway down the aisle, like a goddess bound in silk and shame. Her gown shimmered under the afternoon sun, but she looked like she was walking to her own execution. My throat burned at the sight of her. I could see the stiffness in her shoulders, the tremble in her jaw, the way her father’s grip on her arm wasn’t guidance, it was ownership. Every step she took felt like a betrayal of who she was. But she kept walking. Because that’s what they wanted her to do.
Not anymore.
The growl of our engines shattered the hush.
We didn’t roll in quietly. We didn’t slip
