Chapter 2: Bridal Shop

The silence struck harder than a bullet.

One thousand eyes looked at Liana as she moved down the aisle. Velvet carpet swallowed the whisper of her heels. Her gown shone like an illusion, a silk prison that sparkled under suspended chandeliers like moons in sorrow.

Gasps spread through the crowd like music. Too tall. Too human. Too wrong.

Lady Virello's fan slipped from her fingers. Smooth wood struck marble with a sudden, ringing crash. Her husband, Lord Virello, leaned forward in his chair, nostrils flaring, lips trembling with strained indignation.

"That is not Stella," he breathed into the air.

At the back of the altar, Dante's jaw hardened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His wolf stirred under his skin, a slow, growling roll of confusion and instinct. That wasn't her. That wasn't Stella. That was a human. A stranger.

Then, it arrived. Like wind seeping through bone.

"Control yourself," his father's voice crept through the bond, not words precisely. Something older, wilder. A command swathed in velvet steel. "Don't spoil this."

Dante remained silent. His gaze locked on Liana as she moved like a ghost across the room to him, her white-knuckled fists gripping a withering bouquet. Her breath shuddered. Her eyes roamed the room-searching. For someone. Anyone. Familiar.

No one.

Just wolves in ties, beasts in silk, and a crowd suspended between confusion and etiquette.

"Father," Dante snarled against their bond, his wolf at its leash. "Who is she? Where's Stella? This ain't her. This is a goddamn human."

"Keep your damn mouth closed," the response, colder this time. "The press has come. Politicians. You speak, all this union burns. We will handle this later. But today you marry. Today you smile."

Dante forced-swallowed down the anger. It had been bitter and like iron.

Down the audience, Stella's mother caught hold of her husband's arm. Her lipstick-red mouth quivered. "Where is our daughter?"

"This is unacceptable," Lord Virello snarled, rising to his feet halfway before a wordless warning glance from Alpha Volmore's had him sitting like a razor.

And Liana walked on.

She didn't understand why her legs were moving. Her mind was screaming. Everything in her was screaming. She felt it occurring-the blankness encroaching from her fingertips, a numbness surrounding her thoughts in cotton.

It wasn't hers. That silence in her mind. That wasn't hers.

In the background, far above the shadows of the dome, a figure caused a dainty rune to dance through the air with gloved fingers. It glowed, golden and otherworldly. Mind magic. Old and Powerful.

Liana's spine went rigid. Her mouth dropped into something like serenity. Her eyes went out, not quite blank, but lost. As if the part of her that would have screamed had been locked in a box.

Alpha Volmore whirled about, coal-fire eyes fixed on the officiator. One nod.

The wedding began.

And no one would speak truth.

Well, no one but the chandelier. It flickered again. As if it, too, wanted to fall.

Liana's POV

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be wearing this dress, walking down this aisle, gazing down into the precipice of a life that belonged to someone else.

But my feet continued.

Not because I had wanted them to. God, no. With every step, it was as if stepping into a mouth - a large, smiling mouth, all teeth and gold and clapping. The hem of the dress swept by marble like a sigh. I felt the silence that fell over the crowd, as if all the air had been drawn out of the room. Or perhaps that was me.

Eyes.

So many eyes.

They weren't just looking at me. They were peeling away from me. Leaving me bare of curiosity, suspicion, hunger. My hands tightened around the bouquet. Not for elegance. For balance. For something to cling to as my world was unwound thread by thread.

As I stepped closer,

I saw him. Clearly.

The groom.

Tall. Still. Sculpted out of ice and stone and icy rage. His eyes burned behind the gauze as if it wasn't there. He glared at me - at me - and for a moment, I promise you, he was going to descend and stop all this stupidity.

He didn't.

He just glared. No smile. No welcome. Just. awareness.

He knew.

He knew I wasn't the bride he was supposed to wed.

His father stood next to him, back rigid, nostrils flared. Something flashed on the man's face - anger, bewilderment, even terror - and was gone, overwhelmed by the weight of expectation. The father didn't move either. The crowd didn't. No one screamed. No one rose to cry out, "Hey, wait, that's not Stella.".

Because I looked like I belonged. I looked like a bride. And this was an act. A goddamned production. The cameras rolled. The guests held their breath. And the stage was too perfect to have reality crash through it now.

I tried to open my mouth and speak. To confess. To cry. To run.

Nothing came out.

My lips trembled, but the words would not shape. My tongue was heavy. My mind, foggy.

That's when I felt it.

Cold fingers, unseen, insinuating themselves into my brain.

As a wind behind my head. Like my body belonged to someone else. Like I was a puppet in a gown, and somebody else held the strings.

I attempted to yell. I did. But my lungs betrayed me.

My arms raised the bouquet on their own. My chin settled into place, as if I'd been ready to do this. My back straightened, shoulders dropped-polished I'd never possessed before coursed through me now like poison dripped into wine.

No, no, no-

I wanted to fold. I wanted to rip the veil back and scream Stella's name and shout questions and tear the truth apart until someone, anyone, saw me. Actually saw me.

But I couldn't even twitch.

And still - I walked.

The skirt of the wedding dress trails behind me like the shadow of a girl I used to be. My every step rings out too sharply upon the clear surface. The music is subdued, orchestral, almost romantic - but to my hearing, it drowns. It rings like a dirge.

The Groom stands by the altar like a winter statue, chiseled and unyielding. unreadable. Tall enough to look down on kingdoms. I don't know him. Not quite. But something in his stillness pricks the air between us. As if he knows. As if they all do.

But no one moves.

No one speaks.

Not the priest. Not the groom. Not the scores of hawky eyes behind masks of jewels and oily camera lenses.

I catch up to him. My hand brushes his when I stop, and he doesn't flinch back. Just blinks. His eyes are darker than I'd remembered in the hallway - colder too, like something's been broken and refrozen.

I wait for someone to protest. For the dream to shatter.

No one does.

The vows begin - not mine, not exactly. Some voice says them aloud in that strange old-fashioned language, thick and formal, as I nod and echo like a string puppet, hardly understanding the words. They are not mine. I know my mouth is saying it, but it's not me speaking.

I scan the crowd, desperate for a familiar face - a lifeline. But I don't know them. I don't know where I am. I don't know why my body feels heavy, why my thoughts slip through my fingers like water.

Why can't I scream?

Why I don't run.

A pressure hums low in my skull. It isn't pain. It's. fog. Soft, velvety, convincing. Like maybe this is fine. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm supposed to be here.

I try to shake it.

I try to focus.

The Groom vows his next. His voice

Liana’s POV

I am Liana Bellarose.

More of a tongue-trilling name, truly, but it fits. I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't give it to myself in another life—one in which I wasn't concealing myself behind bridal stores and dead gowns. One in which I wasn't pretending to be someone I am not. I have spent so many years walking by mirrors, never quite seeing what looks back.

Liana Bellarose. Sounds like a woman with her life together, doesn’t it? Well, 

spoiler alert: I’m not.

But I do have something. One ritual that I never skip. It's not a birthday or a holiday of any kind. It's not something anyone would ever receive. Every year, every time, I'm going into the same bridal store, trying on bridesmaid dresses that aren't mine. No bridegroom, no wedding. Just me—alone.

It started when I was sixteen. Nobody knows why. Maybe it was because the dresses were like. a party. Like one day someone would have a party in my honor, even if only for me, alone.

I would go alone. Always alone. I'd walk among the crowds on city streets, the din of noise, the ubiquitous buzz of existence that filled my life, and proceed to Rosa's store. Rosa, the gentle woman who operated the store, never asked questions. She would only smile and say, "Ah, my bride has returned," as if I were the catalyst for something significant.

This day was no exception. Or leastwise it was not intended to be.

I woke up before dawn, the sun only barely peeking over the skyline. I tore on my jeans, tied my scarf around my head, and ventured out into the morning air. The cool, biting wind assaulted my flesh.

And when I stepped inside Rosa's shop, everything was. normal.

"Back again, huh?" Rosa greeted me with her trademarked smile.

"You know me," I told her with a smile.

And so I followed after her to the back of the shop, where the rows of dresses stood still, waiting for my touch. I did not want the gowns. Not at all. I was not here for the wedding illusions. I was there because for a moment, I could imagine. I could join the fantasy.

But something was. different today.

I wandered through the rows of lace and satin, my fingertips grazing over the fabric carelessly. I wasn't looking for anything, not that I was aware of. Just doing what I did always. And then I saw her.

A woman, standing among the gowns. She wasn't looking at the gowns, not like everyone else would. Her eyes were distant, wandering around the room, as if she was looking for something—or someone. There was something about her that made me stop in my tracks.

Her dark hair sparkled under the soft boutique lighting. It was. too perfect. Glossy. Edgy. Unreal. And the strangest thing? She was a dead ringer for me. Same height. Same build. Same posture. It was as if gazing at a reflection that was not mine.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

No, it wasn't possible. It couldn't be. And yet there she was, standing before me, as if the universe had played some kind of sick joke on me.

My heart beat faster as our eyes locked. She looked as surprised as I was. And then, in a moment of sheer stupidity, I said, "Hi."

She arched an eyebrow, obviously taken aback.

"Wow, I love your bag!" I said, nodding towards the designer bag she held. It caught the light, shining like something out of a magazine.

"Thanks," she replied quietly, smiling shyly. "It's a Bvlgari."

"Bvlgari?" I asked, staring at it like it was something I couldn't even afford. "Wow, that's expensive. Can I. can I touch it?"

She didn't hesitate long before she passed it to me. I grasped the bag, feeling the smooth leather between my fingertips as if it were something valuable. The strange thing was, I didn't even desire the bag—I desired her. The way she held it. The way she looked at me.

"You have good taste," I said, a smile tugging at my lips.

"Thanks," she breathed. There was something in her tone, the way she used the word. It sounded sincere. But there was something underneath, something I couldn't place.

Then, she surprised me.

“You want it?” she asked.

I blinked. “What?”

She leaned in. “We could trade the bag and shirt. Just for fun.”

I stared at her, caught between suspicion and curiosity. Who offers a Bvlgari bag for a worn Target tee?

But something about her smile—like a dare and a secret combined—made me say yes.

I blinked. Was she joking?

"Seriously?" I barely whispered. "You're. you're willing to give it to me?"

"Yeah," she nodded, a sly smile spreading on her lips. I felt my stomach jump, surprise and excitement entwined. "You'd really do that?"

"Yeah," she said again, the smile on her face wide, but her eyes. her eyes looked different.

Thanks, I told her, then yanked her into a brief hug, relieved by this odd feeling. This moment, this encounter, felt too. unreal. But I knew I'd be sorry if I didn't grab that shirt.

We swapped clothes in the dressing room. Her shirt clung to me like it belonged. Her scent stayed on my skin, subtle and sharp. Like perfume made for enternity.

“Thanks,” she said, again and again.

“No—thank you,” I replied, staring at my reflection. I didn’t look like me. I looked like her. Today was that fortunate day after all.

I was compelled to turn around, to look at her again, and she was nowhere to be seen.

I shook my head, having a strange empty sensation take up residence in my chest. Where had she vanished to?

Before I could even think about anything else, however, she opened the doors of the boutique and three businessmen entered. Their presence hit me like a tsunami—brutal, cold, scripted.

One of them spotted me almost immediately. "There she is," he said, his voice low and deliberate.

I froze.

I had to say something. To insist on knowing what was going on. But they were already moving towards me, each step calculated, too rapid for comfort.

"Madam, it's time," one of them said.

"Time for what?" I stammered, the fear crawling up my spine.

They did not answer, simply continued to move towards me. The tallest of them raised his hand in a signal to the others, and they closed in on either side of me. One of them reached back and grabbed me, and before I had any idea what was happening, I was being swept off the ground.

"Let me down!" I screamed, my chest racing.

"No time for that," the second man answered, his voice firm. "We're taking you now."

I twisted and struggled in his arms, trying to break away. "I'm not her!" I cried out. "You've made a mistake! You've got the wrong girl!"

But they did not leave me alone. I did not even get to see their faces when the door opened. There was a black car parked outside. No one spoke.

"Wait!" I yelled. "The girl! The one who gave me this shirt. She. she was like me!

—

The car stopped, but I didn't move. I couldn't. The ground beneath me felt as though it might suddenly open and swallowed me up whole. My hands were clenched around the fabric of my jeans, knuckles aching white from how tightly I was holding on to it, as though the car itself would lurch back into motion again and take me somewhere anywhere but here.

I stared at the mansion before me.

A beast. That's the only word to use. A gigantic, immaculate monolith that seemed to defy every ounce of common sense in the cosmos. Marble pillars gleamed as if ripped straight from a museum exhibit—gold edging on each corner as if someone had pillaged the whole treasure of an abandoned kingdom.

My heart thudded in my ears as the door creaked open, and suddenly the men in suits were there once more. They moved with barely a sound, shadow-like. One of them thrust out his hand, as if I were a long-lost friend, and he was welcoming me home, rather than being some kid off the street they'd picked up.

"Madam, please," the first one said, his voice too respectful, too cautious. "Welcome home."

My mind stuttered to a halt. Welcome home? What was the matter? Why did he say that for? There was no possible way that I fit here. This was a place for people who had yachts, who drank champagne with diamonds in it. People who. were not me.

But I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around it. I had my mouth open, but words became lodged somewhere in my throat. I wasn't sure if it was fear or the insidious feeling that this whole thing just didn't feel. right.

Stepping out of the car on shaky legs, the floor cold under me. I could almost hear the whine of my sneakers, complaining against the slippery floor beneath them.

"Is everything all right, Madam?" The voice was behind me. It was the same man who had opened the door, the same man who spoke to me, in that detached coolness, as 'Madam'. "You appear. rather lost."

Lost? No joke.

But before I could answer, more men appeared. They came out of the darkness, as if they had been waiting for me all along. There was something so smooth, so practiced about the way they moved. Like they had been schooled to do this for this precise moment. For me.

"Come in, please" said one of them, his tone smooth but underlain with something I couldn't quite put my finger on—haste, maybe. I was being royally treated like some queen who'd just returned from a long, long absence, and it was so ridiculous that I wished to laugh.

I should have giggled. Or shrieked. Something. But they just went, my legs, step by step, across the meticulously trimmed garden and up the wide, sweeping stairs to the front doors.

Inside was only worse.

The moment I stepped inside, it was like entering a world unto itself. The atmosphere shifted—cooler, fresher, as if sucked from some lofty, unconquered mountain peak. I gazed about at the gigantic chandelier overhead, how it sparkled like stars were trapped within it. Too big, too elegant, too much for any human, much less one like me.

Everything—everything—was perfect. As if gods had designed it.

I stood stuck in the doorway, the weight of the place pushing me down. This. this was not for me. This was not my life. How had I gone from slipping into a dress for a few stolen moments of fantasy to this?

My heart thumping in my chest. I glared back at the men who had brought me here, their masks of expressionless faces, their actions as smooth and calculated as a well-oiled machine.

"Why am I here?" I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. "What. what is going on here? Who are you people? And why are you all keeping calling me 'Madam'?" My eyes darted between them, hunting for some spark of recognition, some clue that it was all a terrible prank. "This is a mistake, isn't it?"

cuts as sharp as a knife wrapped in velvet. The audience is silent. I am not. My heart pounding in my throat, palms damp in the lace gloves.

Then the priest speaks the final words. The binding words.

"You may kiss the bride."

My world holds its breath.

Wait..what?

Kiss??