Oops! I Am My Bully's Bride

“Marceline, please, just put the wedding dress on. We don’t have time for this.”

Her mother’s voice cracked the second the door shut.

She shoved the heavy white gown into Marceline’s arms before the butler even finished unloading the single suitcase.

The silk felt cold and stiff against Marceline’s skin, nothing like the soft practice clothes she usually wore.

She stood frozen on the marble steps of the Moretti estate, the invitation still crumpled in her other hand. After six years in the countryside she had expected awkward silence or maybe a polite hug. She had not expected panic.

“What? No!" Marceline answered, half confused.

Inside the grand foyer her twin sister sat on the bottom stair in a thin slip, mascara running in dark lines down her cheeks.

Marina rocked back and forth, arms locked around her knees. Their father paced near the tall windows, phone pressed hard to his ear, muttering numbers that made the color drain from his face.

“She’s refusing,” her mother hissed, glancing toward the closed double doors as if someone might already be listening on the other side. “The ceremony starts in less than an hour. You have to take her place.”

Marceline blinked hard. “Take her place? Mom, I just got here. The invitation said I was coming for the wedding, not to be in it.”

Marina’s head snapped up. Her voice came out raw. “I can’t do it. I won’t. Look.” She thrust a folded letter at Marceline with shaking hands. The Harvard seal was clear even through the damp spots left by tears. “They accepted me. Orientation is tomorrow morning. If I miss the flight, the scholarship disappears for good. But if I walk down that aisle the Cross family owns every piece of us. The debt….”

“Enough,” their father cut in. He stopped pacing and faced Marceline fully for the first time since she was twelve.

His eyes looked older than she remembered. “It’s an arranged marriage. The contracts were signed when you two were still small. The groom has never seen Marina’s face. The Moretti name is the only thing keeping the collectors from burning this house down tonight. You step in, sign the papers, and give him an heir within the year. That’s the deal. We’ll pay you whatever amount you name after it’s done.”

Marceline’s fingers tightened around the gown until her knuckles turned white. The words “give him an heir” landed like a slap.

She had spent the entire train ride imagining her first week in the city…finding a cheap studio apartment near the dance academy that had offered her a trial, practicing until her feet blistered, finally chasing the dream her grandmother had quietly protected for years. Instead she was being asked to sell her body and her future in under sixty minutes.

“An heir?” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. “You want me to marry a stranger and have his baby so Marina can go to college?”

Her mother stepped closer. The expensive perfume she wore could not hide the tremor in her hands. “He is not a stranger. He is the Adrian Cross. He’s next in line to take over Cross Holdings. People say he’ll be the new Don once the old man steps aside. That family is powerful enough to erase debts… or people.”

The name hit her square in the chest.

Adrian Cross.

Marceline’s breath caught. She remembered the last time she had seen him clearly.

She was sixteen, standing in the cracked dirt behind her grandmother’s small farm while black SUVs idled on the narrow road.

Adrian had been there with a group of older cousins, dark hair falling into his eyes, sleeves rolled up as he watched surveyors mark the land for another “development project.”

The machines had torn through the only fields her grandmother could still plant that season.

He had looked straight at Marceline, smirked, and called her “country rat” loud enough for everyone to hear. That was only the beginning of her suffering.

There was the night he and his friends locked her in the old toolshed during a thunderstorm just to listen to her scream.

She had clawed at the wooden door until her fingernails split.

There was the afternoon they dumped fertilizer on the only clean dress she owned before the village festival, laughing as the stench soaked into the fabric.

Every time their paths crossed he found a new way to remind her she was nothing…the invisible girl with a poor grandma, the one no one in the city ever bothered to claim.

She had learned to keep her head down and her mouth shut. Surviving him had become its own kind of practice.

Marceline took a step backward toward the front doors. Her pulse hammered in her throat. “No. Absolutely not. I’m leaving. I came here thinking maybe you’d finally support my dancing. There’s a studio that offered me a trial. I can’t throw that away for a man who used to….”

Marina scrambled up and grabbed her wrists. Her nails dug in hard enough to leave half-moons. “Please. They’ll kill Dad if there’s no bride standing at that altar. We heard the threats on the phone. One hour, Marceline. Just walk down the aisle, say the words, and stay long enough to give him a kid. Then you can leave. I’ll come back after Harvard and take over. I swear on everything.”

Marceline stared at her twin’s face…the same face as her own, only softer from years of city living and never missing a meal. Guilt and anger twisted together in her stomach until she felt sick.

She thought of her grandmother’s thin hands, of the quiet evenings spent stretching on the wooden floor of the old barn while rain tapped the roof.

She thought of the debt collectors who already circled the estate like vultures.

Every part of her wanted to shove the dress away and run.

Yet the image of her father pale and defeated, of Marina’s future collapsing in a single missed flight, kept her feet glued to the marble.

She opened her mouth to refuse again….

A sharp crack split the air outside. It was a sound of a gunshot.

The sound bounced off the high ceilings and left a ringing silence behind it.

Everyone in the foyer went still. Then heavy footsteps approached the front doors....followed by a deep, husky voice which carried through the wood impatiently.

“Is my bride ready? No one keeps the Cross family waiting.”