Chapter 7: I can never be this beautiful.

Roxana

I press my hand to my chest, trying to contain the wild thumping.

“Are you defying me, dear bride?”

I shake my head.

“Now do what I told you to.”

I have no choice; I must do as he wants, or he might do something truly bad to me.

Trembling, I slowly begin removing my oversized top.

Suddenly, the door yanks open, and his mother enters, raising her brow at us.

“What are you two doing?”

Tristan looks down at me and smirks, “We are getting dressed.”

“You must be out of your mind. Can you leave now and let the girl hurry with dressing?”

Without another word, he quietly leaves, but not before sparing me one last glance that makes my body shudder.

When he finally slams the door, I almost collapse onto the marble floor, taking a deep breath.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, concern creasing her face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright, let’s get you dressed. Shall we?”

“You don't need to stress yourself; I’ll do it myself.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure? What about the makeup?”

I force a weak smile. “You can help with that once I'm done dressing.”

She nods and leaves, giving me the privacy I need.

Alone, I flop onto the bed and struggle to breathe.

I sit there for a while before gathering the strength to stand and slowly make my way into the bathroom.

It’s huge, with a large bathtub. Everything in this place screams wealth.

I take a bath, trying hard to focus on anything but Tristan.

My mind drifts back to my room, imagining myself looking out the window like I used to or helping the maid in the kitchen when I felt like it.

But everything has changed now.

Tears slip down my cheeks and soak my neck.

I can no longer do the things I used to—no more education, no more ambitions.

They’ve all vanished.

And my life? I have no idea what will happen once Tristan finds out the secret I hide deep inside.

After the bath, I step out and look at myself in the big mirror.

I pause and stare. My skin feels itchy, and scars trail from different directions.

They’re so ugly.

No matter how much I wash, I can't get rid of them or the painful memories they carry.

Swallowing hard, I gather my courage and enter the room.

My eyes fall on the wedding gown.

It’s too beautiful for someone like me.

I don't deserve it.

Movement outside pulls me into action—Tristan’s mother will enter soon, and I need to cover myself.

I hurriedly get dressed, slipping into the long, flowing gown, and putting on matching jewelry.

The door opens, and Tristan’s mother peeks inside. “Can I enter now?”

“Yes, please.” A smile curves her lips as she walks in.

“Sit,” she commands, pulling out a chair in front of the dressing mirror.

I do as she says. She begins applying makeup quickly—so fast, I wonder if she’s a professional.

She helps comb my hair and pins tiny diamond hairclips to finish the look.

When she’s done, she steps back, admiring her work.

A grin escapes her. “You look so beautiful, sweetheart.”

I nearly roll my eyes.

I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but I can’t feel good about this while I'm about to marry her son, the devil.

The name alone makes me wish I were dead and could skip today.

“Stand up and check.”

I do, walking to the mirror.

My breath catches.

The woman staring back is too stunning to be me.

“This is not me,” I croak. “I can never look this beautiful.”

Tristan's mother laughs, clearly amused by my words.

Why the hell is she laughing?

Doesn’t she see my life is slowly unraveling?

And she’s making me this breathtaking?

It hurts even more.

I run my hands over my body, checking—I need to be sure I'm not dreaming.

God, I'm real!

And I look like a Disney princess.

Why? Why do I have to look this beautiful on the day I'm supposed to die?

Tears well up, blurring my vision, and I blink to keep from ruining the makeup she just finished.

“Can we go now?”

“Yes, ma.”

She pauses. “Call me mother.”

I swallow hard. “Mother.”

“Good.” She picks up the veil from the bed, attaches it to my hair, then takes my hand and guides me out of the room.

My heart pounds wildly.

My legs shake beneath the gown, and I struggle to keep from falling.

This is really happening to me!

Many people are inside, waiting for me—the bride—to appear, to marry their worst nightmare.

I walk slowly down the aisle, feeling all their eyes on me.

Men gape, women glare with envy or hate, and Tristan stands at the altar, looking so composed, so collected.

His tattoos cover him like a living canvas.

When he notices the gasp from the crowd, he turns to face me, and I see his eyes widen.

For the first time, his cold expression falters.

His arrogant smirk which usually sits on his face slowly disappears.

His gaze sweeps over me, the gown, the veil, the jewelry, then settles on my face.

A dark, possessive look flashes across his face.

His jaw tics.

I want to disappear.

His eyes burn too hot, too intense, and I hold my breath.

His jaw tightens again.

His gaze remains fixed on me, as if the crowd no longer exists and it’s just the two of us alone.

Then the corner of his mouth curves up—not his usual mocking grin, but something far more dangerous.

It makes my pulse race.

He then shakes his head slightly, as if he can't believe his eyes.

A tingling of fear runs down my skin because, for the first time since I met Tristan Aleksander Kozlov, D’yavol, he looks completely captivated.

Near the altar, I steal a quick glance at my family.

They’re all staring at me—Zendaya with hatred in her eyes, and my mother smiling.

Marco, however, looks at me with glistening eyes and smirks.

I force myself to look away and focus on the moment.

When I reach the altar, the pastor begins the ceremony.

My heart pounds uncontrollably.

The vows are spoken, and I repeat them blindly, my mind spinning.

After a while, the pastor declares us husband and wife and asks for a kiss.

My breath hitching in my throat, Tristan lifts the veil from my eyes, pulls me close, and kisses me fiercely.

I forget to breathe.

I'm too stunned—paralyzed.

He doesn’t just kiss me; he devours and ravages.

My knees weaken, my vision blurs, and I feel like fainting.

Finally, Tristan pulls back, his forehead briefly resting against mine.

He whispers something only I hear: “You are mine now, dear wife.”

My blood runs cold.