I Was Written to Be His Forgotten Wife

[Elena---aka--- Lena Carter's POV]

I walked down the aisle in a wedding dress that didn’t belong to me.

“Lena Carter…”

The herald’s voice echoed across the grand cathedral as he announced a name that was supposed to be mine.

But it wasn’t, not really.

My heels clicked softly against the marble floor as I forced my legs to move forward. Each step felt strangely distant, like I was watching someone else walk toward the altar.

At the end of the aisle stood the man I was meant to marry.

Salvatore Mancini.

Tall, broad-shouldered, black hair perfectly combed back, blue eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. The kind of man women dreamed about. The kind of man novels were written about.

A fantasy, a perfect male lead, and yet…the way he looked at me made it painfully clear. I was the last person he wanted standing in front of him.

His gaze was cold, not just indifferent.

Cold.

There was no warmth, no politeness, not even the faint courtesy of pretending.

When I finally reached the altar, he didn’t extend his hand to help me step up, not even for formality, not even for the sake of the guests watching us.

His blue eyes only watched me with undisguised hostility, as if the mere sight of me standing here was already an insult.

A wedding was supposed to be a happy moment, a day every bride dreamed of, but the air inside this cathedral felt heavy, suffocating.

Still…I forced myself to breathe slowly.

'Alright. You can do this, no need to be nervous.'

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to look around the hall, because I already knew what I would see, no smiling faces, no happy guests, only silent witnesses staring at me with clear disapproval.

Some with pity, most with hatred.

After all—Everyone here knew the truth, this marriage wasn’t built on love.

It was a deal.

A political alliance between two families who would rather destroy each other, and I was the price paid to seal it, no matter how many times I tried to escape it, no matter how many times I tried to accept it…

This wedding was never meant to bring me happiness.

“Today,” the herald announced, his voice echoing across the hall, “we gather here to witness the union between Lena Carter of the Carter family and Salvatore Mancini of the Mancini family.”

Silence answered him, no applause, no congratulations. Even the herald himself looked at me with thinly veiled distaste, as if he would rather be anywhere else.

His gaze turned toward me.

“Lena Carter,” he said formally. “Do you take Salvatore Mancini to be your lawful husband?”

My fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet.

Salvatore didn’t even glance in my direction, his gaze remained fixed ahead, as if I wasn’t even worth acknowledging, for a brief moment, a strange calm settled inside me.

Because the truth was simple, whether I liked it or not…I had no choice, but to speak the words I was destined to say.

“…I do.”

The words left my lips quietly, yet they echoed loudly in my mind.

The herald then turned to the man beside me.

“Salvatore Mancini,” he said, “do you take Lena Carter to be your lawful wife?”

For a moment, there was silence.

Salvatore’s jaw tightened slightly, then slowly… his eyes shifted toward me.

That gaze.

Sharp.

Cold.

Filled with unmistakable resentment, as if the ring on my finger had already chained him to something he despised.

Finally, he spoke, “I. DO.”

The words sounded more like a declaration of defeat than a vow, no one clapped, no one smiled. We simply exchanged rings in the suffocating silence of the cathedral.

And just like that without celebration, without love, without even basic kindness, I married a man who despised me with every cell in his body.

So, how did I end up in a marriage like this?

Simple, because terrible things have always happened to me.

Even back when I was still Elena.

Yes, you guessed correctly. I’m not the real Lena Carter, my name used to be Elena Moretti.

A girl who was abandoned by her own parents when she was ten years old.

I still remember that day clearly, my parents brought me to an orphanage. The woman running the place smiled politely and asked them, “Where did you find this child?”

My father didn’t even hesitate, "We found her wandering on the street.”

For a moment, I thought I had heard him wrong, because right beside him stood the woman who had given birth to me.

And she nodded as she added casually, “Yes. Poor thing looked like she had nowhere to go.”

Being handed to an orphanage by your own parents…While they pretended not to know you…Is a feeling I could never fully describe.

It wasn’t pain.

Pain would have been easier, it was something colder, something emptier, like being erased while you were still standing there.

After that day, my life became a cycle.

Adopted.

Returned.

Adopted again.

Returned again.

Some families said I was too quiet, some said I was unlucky, others simply stopped pretending and told the orphanage they had “changed their mind.”

That cycle repeated itself until I turned fifteen, after that, I stopped hoping someone would choose me.

Instead, I chose myself.

I studied harder, worked harder, saved every cent I could. Years later…when I finally secured a stable job and bought a small house of my own…For the first time in my life, I thought things might finally change. Every wall in that house had been designed by me.

Every corner painted with colors I liked, for the first time, something in my life truly belonged to me, and then…

They appeared again.

My parents.

I was standing in the hallway of my new house when the doorbell rang, when I opened the door…Two familiar faces stood outside.

Older.

More worn.

But unmistakably them, my father looked around the house with greedy eyes.

“So,” he said casually, “I heard you bought a house.”

My hands slowly clenched into fists, “That’s none of your business.”

My mother sighed dramatically as she said sweetly, “Oh, come on, honey. Are you still angry about that little misunderstanding?”

Misunderstanding.

I almost laughed.

“We had no choice back then,” she continued. “We were poor.”

I walked past them and opened the front door wider.

“Get out,” I said calmly. “Or I’ll call security.”

But before I could take another step—YANK.

My mother grabbed my arm violently, her nails dug into my skin as she pulled me back as she snapped, “Hey, didn’t we just say we had no choice?”

Her face twisted with irritation.

“So as a good daughter, you should stop sulking and welcome us properly.”

I ripped my arm away, “I’m calling security.”

But before I could reach my phone, my father suddenly spoke, “Alright, We’ll leave.”

I paused slightly, then he added—“Just give us some money first.”

My expression went cold, “I don’t give money to beggars, so, get out before I—”

But before I could finish they both grabbed me, my father’s hand clamped around my wrist while my mother shoved me backward as he barked, “Hey! Just give the damn money already! You owe us that much!”

The sudden force made me lose my balance, my heel slipped against the floor, for a brief moment, everything felt weightless. Then, I fell.

My back slammed violently against the glass table.

SHATTER!!!

Pain exploded through my body, my head struck the final step with a sickening crack. Something warm spread beneath me.

Blood.

The ceiling above me blurred as my vision darkened, my body refused to move. The smell of blood filled the air.

My mother’s voice trembled slightly, “…That damn bitch, did she die?”

My father crouched near me for a moment, then he clicked his tongue, “Doesn’t matter. Let’s leave before someone finds us.”

Neither of them touched me, neither of them checked if I was breathing, they simply stepped over my body, like I was nothing more than garbage in their way.

The front door slammed shut, their footsteps disappeared, and as the darkness slowly swallowed my vision…The last thing I saw was the house I had designed with my own hands.

My safe place.

My first real home.

Then everything faded, and that was the end of Elena Moretti.