Chapter 5

“Well, well, well... if it isn't the bankruptcy bride. Wife-to-be, would it be?”

Iris froze mid-step, the fabric of the dress slipping slightly through her fingers.

That voice.

Sharp. Familiar. Venom-tipped.

She didn’t have to look up to know who it belonged to.

But she did.

Because pride demanded it.

Standing at the entrance was Evie Langford, daughter of the CEO of Cadentrix Corp—Mr. Hargrove—her father’s fiercest business rival and the very embodiment of everything Iris had been taught to avoid: arrogance draped in diamonds.

Evie strutted in like the showroom was her throne room, two women in tow—armored in designer labels, heels clicking like war drums. Their eyes swept the space with practiced disdain, as if even breathing the same air as Iris might sully their lungs.

Dina moved like a lioness, stepping in front of Iris, chin raised high. Her eyes burned.

“Back off, Evie.”

Evie’s smirk curled like smoke. She flicked a glossy strand of hair behind her shoulder with theatrical flair.

“Relax. I’m just... surprised,” she said, voice laced with syrup and steel. “But it makes sense now. I heard the rumors—selling yourself off to Marx Danver just to save your daddy's sinking ship. Classic, I guess.”

Iris felt heat rise to her face—fast, angry, and suffocating. Her heart slammed against her chest like it wanted to escape. Each word Evie spat landed like a slap, but she refused to flinch.

Not in front of her.

Not today.

Her nails dug into her palms as shame curled in her gut like a coiled snake.

“What would your poor mother say?” Evie cooed, her voice a mockery of concern as she began to circle Iris like a predator scenting blood. “Oh wait... wasn’t she just admitted? Must be hard—watching your family fall apart while pretending to be Cinderella.”

Iris's throat tightened. Her mother. That was a low blow. Too low.

“You’re crossing the line,” Dina snapped, stepping between them like a shield.

Evie tilted her head, her smile as cold as frostbite. “Don’t worry. Marrying a cold-hearted billionaire might be your only talent. But don’t think for a second that dress makes you one of us.”

With a final sneer, she turned, her entourage following like obedient shadows, laughter trailing behind them like poison perfume.

---

Silence.

It slammed into the room like thunder after lightning.

The chandelier sparkled above, beautiful and cruel. It swayed slightly, as if disturbed by the storm that had just passed.

Iris stood frozen, staring at nothing, her ears still ringing from Evie’s words.

Her heartbeat felt loud in the quiet, a drumbeat of humiliation. The laughter still echoed—like ghosts in the marble hall.

Her hand trembled where it clutched the silk of the dress. She hadn't even tried it on, but it already felt tainted. Too heavy. Too white. Too much.

Her lips parted, maybe to defend herself—or maybe to scream—but no words came.

Only the silence.

And the sting.

And then... the tears.

Silent.

Unwelcome.

Her pride tried to hold them back, but her pride was cracked now.

“Iris…” Dina whispered, her voice suddenly so soft, so real.

She reached for Iris’s hand. Gave it a squeeze. The gesture was simple, but it held her together—barely.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t give them that satisfaction.”

But the words felt distant.

Iris stared down at the marble floor, the shine reflecting her pain back at her. Her vision blurred. Another tear fell. Dina caught it with her thumb and pulled her in, holding her close like she used to when they were younger and the world was less cruel.

“It’s okay,” Dina murmured again. “You’re not alone. You’re stronger than her.”

Iris didn’t feel strong.

She felt like paper—creased, crumpled, torn.

The stylist, who earlier had gushed about silhouettes and necklines, now stood awkwardly to the side, her hands wringing nervously, eyes darting anywhere but at them.

Then—click, click, click.

The sound of heels.

Back again.

Iris’s heart sank.

Evie.

Because of course she wasn’t done yet.

“Aw, look at the lovebirds comforting each other. Did I break something?” Evie smirked, her voice like acid.

Her entourage giggled behind her, an echo of cruelty.

“Guess poor girls do cry in designer places too,” one of them snorted.

Iris stiffened. Her shoulders straightened out of instinct. If she couldn’t stop the shaking inside, she could at least pretend she wasn’t falling apart.

“My dear Iris,” Evie said, dragging out each word like a sweet curse. “Imagine my surprise, seeing you still clinging to the notion that marrying Marx will save you.”

She laughed. A beautiful sound. Hollow and sharp.

“Sweetheart, your naïveté is almost... endearing.”

Then her tone turned colder than ice.

“Don’t you understand? Your fairytale wedding won’t rewrite reality. Your father’s name is poison. Marx won’t be able to protect you—not from us. Not from what’s coming.”

The tall woman beside her—ice-eyed and bitter—snorted.

“Honestly, the audacity. Thinking a marriage can elevate her. You’re still insignificant.”

The shorter one chimed in with a smirk that cut like a razor.

“And those precious little babies you probably dream of? Let’s be realistic. Your bloodline is destined for mediocrity.”

Every word pounded in Iris’s chest like hail on a window.

Evie’s eyes drifted to Dina.

“Dragging your equally useless sister into this charade. Birds of a feather, clinging to society’s edges, begging for scraps.”

The air shifted.

Heavy now. Tight. As though even the oxygen recoiled from Evie’s venom.

Iris’s fingers clenched tighter around the dress. Her jaw ached from holding in her words.

Dina stepped forward, her body brimming with rage, but Evie lifted a hand to silence her.

“Oh, don’t bother, Dina,” she said, voice bored. “Your pitiful loyalty is exhausting. You’re both painfully predictable.”

Then she reached into her designer purse and pulled out a thick wad of naira.

The moment felt slow, surreal.

Evie flung it at Iris’s feet. The notes scattered like dry leaves, fluttering, flipping, humiliating.

“Here,” she said. “Maybe you can buy decent fabric for that cheap excuse of a gown. Or set aside something for your poor parents. Because when the Langfords are done with you... you’ll have nothing. Not even pride.”

And with that, she turned to the stylist.

“Darling,” she said sweetly. “Once these unfortunate souls have left, please sanitize the Atelier. I can feel their desperation lingering. I’ll return for my fitting—once the contamination is removed.”

She left, laughing. A final nail.

The stylist looked as if she might cry herself.

Dina looked like she could set fire to the world.

But Iris?

She didn’t move.

The money lay around her like broken glass.

She still held the dress in her arms...

But suddenly, it felt alien. As if it belonged to someone else. Someone stronger. Someone wealthier. Someone Evie couldn’t touch.

Someone she wasn't sure she could become.

---

“You don’t have to do this,” Dina whispered, her voice shaky now. Frustrated. Protective. Loving.

Iris swallowed, hard.

A thousand thoughts screamed inside her.

She thought of her mother—frail, fading.

Her father—prideful, beaten.

The empty hallways of their home.

And the contract she was about to sign with a man who felt more like an empire than a person.

Her voice cracked when she answered.

“I do.”

She turned to the stylist.

“I’ll try it now.”

The woman, still pale, nodded and moved robotically. She helped zip Iris into the dress.

It hugged her like a second skin. It shimmered under the light. It was everything a bride could want.

And yet...

In the mirror, Iris didn’t recognize herself.

She looked regal. Composed. Almost untouchable.

But her eyes.

Her eyes were raw. A battlefield.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

Inside, something burned.

A silent vow took root.

I’ll marry Marx Danver.

And after that...

No one will ever look down on me again.

The pain didn’t vanish. But it hardened. Turned to resolve.

She stepped out of the fitting room, the fabric whispering around her legs like a promise.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Marx:

> Dinner tonight. Don’t be late.

You should look like my wife already.

No emotion.

No warmth.

Just instruction. Possession disguised as partnership.

But it was that last line that struck her hardest.

You should look like my wife already.

She inhaled slowly, deeply.

And for the first time, she didn't cry.

She didn’t even flinch.

Because she’d made her choice.

And there was no turning back.