Bride of the Century

Elara

Today is supposed to be the day everything changes for the better. After five relentless years of clawing my way upward, I am finally selected to lead the project I designed from the ground up. The one I have poured sleepless nights, endless revisions, and every ounce of determination into.

Five years of proving that I am more than the awkward girl they laughed at when I first walked into this company. They never gave me a chance in the beginning. I came through those glass doors with blooming ideas and impossible dreams, only to be dismissed because of my age and quiet nature.

To them, I was nothing more than a naïve nineteen-year-old with oversized dresses, glasses and unrealistic ambition. Even though they knew that I graduated at nineteen as the top student in my university. I am an architect. And alongside that, I hold a degree in finance and management.

Still, qualifications mean little when confidence is not something you wear naturally.

I grew up in the countryside, raised by soft-spoken parents who believed survival came through silence. Keep your head low. Don’t attract attention. Stay out of trouble. And for most of my life, I listened. Even when I moved to the city for university, I carried those lessons with me.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. My best friend, Aalya, followed me a year later. She was never academically gifted, but she was loyal, stubborn, and sharp in her own way. Then there is Brayan. My boyfriend since high school. The boy who once held my hand beneath classroom desks and whispered promises about our future.

When life becomes too expensive, I open my tiny apartment to both of them without hesitation. The three of us become our own little family.

I am always buried in my studies while I was in University and work, juggling scholarship deadlines while trying to climb the corporate ladder. Brayan struggles to find stable work after graduation, and every few weeks he comes to me desperate for money, claiming local thugs are blackmailing him. I never question it.

I just give him whatever I can.

And Aalya, when her parents throw her out after discovering she is a lesbian, she shows up at my doorstep with swollen eyes and nowhere else to go. She fell into depression so I paid for her therapy, her medication, her food, and her shelter. Not because I have to, but because I love them. Because family helps family.

“Elara.”

The sound of my name snaps me from my thoughts. I look up from my desk to find Darren standing near the elevators, his laptop bag slung over one shoulder.

“The boss is calling you.”

I blink and glance at the office clock.

8:57 p.m. The floor is nearly empty now, swallowed by silence and the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. I have been so focused on perfecting tomorrow’s presentation that I don’t notice everyone leaving.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

Gathering my files and flash drive, I make my way down the polished hallway toward the executive offices.

My flats click softly against marble, the sound unnervingly loud in the emptiness. I assume Mr. Matthew Larson wants one final review before tomorrow’s presentation. Nothing unusual.

When I reach his office, I knock twice.

“Come in.”

His voice echoes through the quiet corridor. I turn the brass handle and step inside. The office is dim except for the warm glow of the desk lamp, which casts long shadows across the room. Mr. Larson sits behind his mahogany desk.

He is a man in his late fifties, bald-headed, heavyset, with a round stomach and a face that usually carries a polite, professional smile. He is strict, demanding, and absolutely. But never unfair.

He motions me closer.

“Did you finish the presentation?”

“Yes, sir.”

I adjust my thick black-rimmed glasses higher on my nose and hand him the flash drive along with the printed file. Without my glasses, the world dissolves into blurred shapes and smudged colors. They are cheap, bulky, and far from flattering, but they are what I can afford. I have two other mouths to feed.

Mr. Larson plugs in the drive and scrolls through the slides in silence.

The room is so quiet I can hear the soft tapping of his fingers against the keyboard. Minutes stretch painfully.

Finally, he gives a single nod. Relief loosens the knot in my chest. Then he opens the printed file, page after page he turns slowly. His expression hardens and my stomach twists.

I rub my forearm instinctively. A terrible habit. Whenever anxiety claws at me, my skin begins to itch—an unbearable crawling sensation that forces me to scratch until red marks bloom across my hands.

He raises one finger.

“Come here.”

I obey, stepping around his desk. He points to a section on the page so I bend closer. After a moment, I spot it.

The bullet point formatting is inconsistent, and the spacing between two lines is slightly wider than the rest. That is all. A tiny imperfection.

The kind only a perfectionist would notice.

Straightening quickly, I lower my head.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it immediately.”

Suddenly, his chair scrapes against the floor. I startle as he stands. A slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Scared, kitten?”

My breath catches. The tone in his voice sends ice through my veins. Everything about it feels wrong. Slowly he steps forward and I step back. Again and again. My fingers dig into my forearm as the itching worsens, that familiar crawling sensation racing beneath my skin.

Then suddenly, his hand shoots out and grabs my right wrist. A sharp whimper escapes me. His grip is firm, too firm. Before I can pull away, he catches my left wrist with his other hand and slowly rolls the sleeve of my sweater upward to my elbow, exposing the angry red marks scattered across my pale skin.

His tongue clicks softly against his teeth, almost pityingly.

“Your pretty skin doesn’t need more redness, kitten.”

My breath catches, fear crashes over me so violently my knees nearly buckle. What is happening? Why is he looking at me like that? Mr. Larson has never looked at me as anything other than another employee. No one has. No man has ever paid attention to me like this except Brayan.

He is my first and only boyfriend. We have been together since high school, and even after all these years, we have never crossed that line. We are both Catholic, both raised to believe intimacy is something sacred, something saved for marriage, for the holy union we promised each other.

And other men? Most barely spare me a second glance. Why would they? I am average in every possible way. Five foot five, no dramatic curves, no full breasts or tempting hips. Just pale skin scattered with freckles and unruly reddish hair that refuses to behave no matter how tightly I pin it back. The kind of face people forget the moment they look away. So why does this old man want me? Before my mind can make sense of any of it, his hands slide to my waist.

Fear crashes over me. This can’t be happening. This is my boss, the man who signed my promotion papers. The man I respect. His thick fingers dig into my sides as he pulls me against him. His stomach creates an awkward barrier between us, but it does nothing to lessen the nausea twisting inside me. He leans close enough for his stale breath to brush my face.

“If you cooperate,” he whispers, “every future project will have your name on it.”

My mind screams, run. Or push him away but my limbs refuse to obey.

Then his hand begins to travel upward toward my chest. Panic explodes inside me and just as his lips part to lean closer, the office door flies open.

Relief floods me so quickly my knees nearly buckle. His wife Mrs. Larson stands in the doorway. For one glorious second, I think I am saved. Then I see her expression. Pure fury before I can speak, she storms toward us and yanks me violently from his grasp. I stumble forward. Her fingers clamp around my shoulders to make me stand straight.

And then, Crack. Her slap snaps my head to the side. A sharp ringing fills my ears. My glasses fly from my face and fall against the polished floor. The room blurs instantly. Tears burn my eyes. I collapse to my knees.

“You filthy whore!”

Pain explodes across my scalp as she grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back.

“How dare you seduce my husband?”

“What—no”

The words barely leave my mouth before her heel slams into my stomach. Agony rips through me.

I gasp, choking as the bile rises in my throat. Another kick and another. Blood fills my mouth.

“If I ever see you near this building again,”

She hisses, “It will be the last day you breathe. Do you understand?”

I can barely think and barely breathe.

Still, I nod, it is all I can do.

“Guards!”

The command cuts sharply through the room. Two security guards enter.

Neither questions what they see.

“Throw this whore out.”

Before they do so I grabbed the glasses on the floor and held them tight and strong hands seized my arms. I am dragged down the hallway, my heels scraping uselessly against marble.

After we reached the exit I was shoved hard onto the pavement outside. The cold night air slaps against my bruised skin. The glass doors shut behind me with hollow finality.

I sit there on the sidewalk, trembling.

Blood stains my lip.

My broken glasses in my bruised hands. My project, my promotion, and my future. All gone. Five years of sacrifice. Five years of loyalty. And five years of believing hard work would be enough.

Destroyed by a mistake I never made.

And as the city lights blur through my tears, one terrifying thought settles into my chest. How am I supposed to tell Brayan and Aalya that I have just lost everything?