Chapter 7: Wedding Morning

The sun came up.

Aurora watched it happen from the window seat of her bridal suite, her knees drawn to her chest. She had not slept. She had not even been in her bed.

After Liam had left her, she had remained in the foyer for a long, silent, shattered hour.

Then, on her hands and knees, her cashmere coat still on, she had picked up every last sliver of the broken glass. She had done it with her bare, trembling fingers, dropping the pieces one by one into her own hand until her palm was bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts.

She had cleaned it up. Just as he’d ordered.

She had washed her hands, watching the water swirl pink with her own blood, and had walked, a ghost, back to her suite.

Now, the sun was streaming in, aggressively bright, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a beautiful, perfect, mocking day.

Somewhere downstairs, the house was coming alive. She could hear the muffled, organized panic of the catering staff. The distant, cheerful tuning of a string quartet. The machine was starting. The performance was about to begin.

She was still in the black trousers and camisole from the night before. Her cashmere coat was puddled on the floor where she’d dropped it.

The ruby earring was in her hand.

She had not let it go. It was the only real thing left in the world. A small, sharp, glittering piece of the truth.

She was hollow. The rage was gone. The grief was gone. All that was left was a cold, empty void and the quiet, buzzing realization that she was trapped.

She was Aurora Vale. Her father’s pride. The lynchpin of the Vale-Cross merger.

If she ran, she would destroy her father's legacy.

If she stayed, she would destroy herself.

At 7 AM, the first, cheerful rap came at the door.

"Aurora? Darling? It's me!"

Sophia.

Aurora didn't move. She didn't breathe.

"Aurora?" The handle jiggled. Sophia had a key.

The door swung open, and her best friend burst in, her arms full of a white garment bag, her face glowing.

"It's here! It's here! It's your—" Sophia stopped.

She took in the scene. The dark room. The untouched bed. Aurora, pale and disheveled, huddled in the window seat, still in yesterday's clothes.

"Oh my god," Sophia whispered, the joy vanishing, replaced by a dawning horror. "Aurora? What happened? You look... did you even sleep?"

Aurora slowly uncurled herself. Her joints ached. She felt a hundred years old.

"I have a headache," she said. Her voice was a dry croak.

"A headache?" Sophia dropped the bag and rushed to her side, feeling her forehead. "You're ice cold. This isn't a headache. This is... did you and Liam have a fight?"

A fight. That was such a small, normal word for the devastation that had occurred.

"No," Aurora lied. The lie came easily now. It was just air. "No, just... just nerves. I couldn't sleep. I've been up all night."

Sophia stared at her, her eyes full of a worry that was almost worse than her joy. "Aurora... you know you don't have to do this, right? If something is wrong, you can tell me."

Aurora looked at her friend. Tell her what? That my fiancé is a monster? That my life is a lie? That I’m being sold for a merger?

"I'm just tired, Soph," Aurora said, forcing a smile. The smile felt like cracking plaster. "And terrified. I'm about to get married."

The lie worked. Sophia’s tension eased. "Okay. Okay, of course. Nerves. I get it. God, I’d be a wreck. But that’s what I’m here for."

She clapped her hands, forcing the energy back into the room. "And that's what they're here for."

As if on cue, a second knock, and the door opened to reveal the hair and makeup team, a whirlwind of brushes, hot irons, and cheerful, professional chatter.

"Good morning, Miss Vale! Happy wedding day!"

For the next two hours, Aurora was a statue. A doll.

They sat her in a chair. They pinned her hair, the hot tools searing, the pins digging into her scalp. They applied creams and foundations, erasing the dark circles, the paleness, the identity. They were "fixing her face."

"Your skin is flawless, Miss Vale. You're a dream."

"Such beautiful eyes. The groom is a lucky, lucky man."

Aurora said nothing. She just watched in the mirror as the ghost in the window seat was replaced by a perfect, painted stranger.

Sophia chattered brightly, filling the silence, describing the flowers, the guests who had already arrived, the perfect blue of the sky.

"It's going to be iconic, Aurora. Truly."

Finally, they were done. The team packed up and left, leaving just her and Sophia.

"Okay," Sophia said, her voice soft with reverence. "It's time."

She walked to the garment bag that had been hung on the canopy of the bed. With a dramatic, zipping sound, she unfastened it.

The dress was revealed.

It was the ivory lace monster from her first fitting. The one from Chapter 1. A whisper of a promise.

But it was no longer a promise. It was a shroud.

"Oh, Aurora," Sophia breathed, tears in her eyes. "It's even more beautiful than I remembered."

"Help me," Aurora said. Her voice was flat.

She stepped out of her black trousers. She stood in her silk camisole, cold and exposed.

They stepped her into the dress. It was heavy. The sheer volume of silk and tulle and hand-sewn pearls was staggering. They pulled it up over her waist, over her chest.

"Suck in," Sophia instructed gently.

Aurora inhaled, and the corset was fastened.

The "broken glass" feeling from the night before was no longer a metaphor. The boning dug into her ribs, sharp and unyielding, stealing her breath. It was a cage of lace and silk.

Sophia began the long, agonizing process of fastening the one hundred tiny, pearl buttons that ran from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.

Each button was a lock. A link in a chain.

Aurora's hands, which she held clasped in front of her, began to tremble.

It was a small, uncontrollable tremor, but she couldn't stop it. She was trying to hold the ruby earring, still hidden in her right hand, and her fingers kept spasming.

"You're shaking," Sophia said, her voice muffled as she focused on a button.

"I'm cold," Aurora lied.

"Almost done," Sophia murmured, her fingers quick. "Just... one... more... There."

Sophia stepped back, her hands on her heart. "Now. Look."

Aurora, who had been staring at a fixed point on the carpet, lifted her head.

She looked in the mirror.

The stranger was gone. In her place was the bride.

She was perfect. Ethereal. A vision of purity and joy. Her hair was a flawless sculpture of dark silk, her makeup was subtle and glowing, her body was encased in the most expensive, exquisite dress money could buy.

She was the perfect, beautiful, magnificent lie.

And she was screaming inside her own skin.

"Aurora," Sophia whispered, "you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. Liam is... he's going to die when he sees you."

He's already dead to me.

The thought was so sharp, so clear, it terrified her.

Downstairs, the string quartet, which had been playing softly, swelled. The music changed. It was the processional.

It was starting.

"Oh, god," Sophia said, grabbing her own bouquet. "That's my cue. I have to go. Your father is right outside the door. Are you ready?"

Aurora stared at her reflection. Her hands were still trembling. She tightened her fist around the earring in her palm, the diamonds biting into her skin.

She was not ready. She was a lamb being led to the slaughter.

She was Aurora Vale. And she had no choice.

"Yes," she said.

Sophia beamed, kissed her on the cheek, and rushed out the door.

Aurora was alone. She heard the muffled sound of her father's voice, greeting Sophia.

She heard the music swell again.

She was supposed to walk.

She took one step, the dress whispering around her.

And then, on the vanity, where it had lain untouched all night, her phone—the one she'd left on the penthouse terrace, the one she'd forgotten—buzzed.

A single text message lit up the dark screen.

It was from an unknown number.

And it said: Don't do it. Check the groom's suite. Third floor. Room 305.