THE PROXY BRIDE

The Mediterranean wind slipped through the open terrace doors of the Veyron villa like a thief in the night, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine—and something darker. Desperation.

Amara Veyron stood in the shadow of a marble column, unseen, as always. The grand salon shimmered with the cold elegance of old money: gilded moldings, crystal chandeliers that scattered light like shattered diamonds, and furniture so pristine it looked untouched by human hands. It was a stage, and below, the performance had begun.

Her stepmother, Marcella, sat poised on a velvet chaise, a vision of calculated grace. Her silver-blonde hair was swept into a chignon so severe it seemed to hold her secrets in place. Across from her, a man in a charcoal-gray suit—impeccable, expressionless—held a leather-bound document. The Drevane family attendant. No name, no warmth. Just authority wrapped in silk and silence.

Between them, on a lacquered table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lay the contract.

It wasn’t just paper. It was a surrender.

A marriage agreement binding Selene Veyron—the golden girl, the favored daughter—to Cassian Drevane, heir to a billion-dollar empire built on steel, surveillance, and a family legend so bizarre it bordered on myth: the Drevane heir must wed a blonde. Not just any blonde—a specific kind. Ice-blue eyes. Flawless skin. A woman who looks like she stepped out of a dynasty portrait.

It was absurd. Archaic. And to Marcella, salvation.

Their family was drowning. The Veyron name, once whispered in boardrooms and art auctions, now clung to the edge of ruin—thanks in no small part to Marcella’s gambling and Selene’s endless indulgences. This marriage was the life raft. And Selene, with her sun-kissed hair and practiced smile, was the perfect vessel.

Amara watched her sister from the shadows. Selene sat rigid, her fingers twisting the stem of a champagne flute. Her beauty was undeniable—porcelain skin, wide blue eyes, the kind of face that launched brands. But beneath the gloss, Amara saw the truth: panic. A trapped animal scenting the cage.

You don’t want this, Amara thought. And neither do I.

But Selene had choices. Amara did not.

That night, the villa held its breath. By dawn, Selene was gone.

No note. No warning. Just an empty bedroom, an open window, and the faint trace of sandalwood and patchouli—her signature scent, and his. A rising musician from the south of France, barely famous but already magnetic, with a voice that haunted late-night radio. They’d met at a private concert in Saint-Tropez. No one knew. No one was supposed to know.

But Marcella did.

And now, her golden daughter had vanished into the arms of a man with no fortune, no title, and no place in the Veyron legacy.

Marcella’s fury was a quiet storm. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply turned to Amara with eyes like winter glass.

“You’ll take her place.”

The words landed like a blade.

Amara stared. “I’m not her.”

“You’re her sister. You’re available. And you’re here.” Marcella stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that slithered into Amara’s bones. “If you refuse, we lose everything. The house. The trust. Your mother’s library—sold off, piece by piece. You’ll have nothing. No one.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a sentence.

Amara said nothing. She didn’t have to. Marcella had already won. She’d spent years chipping away at Amara’s worth—reminding her she was the daughter of a dead woman, a burden, a ghost in the family portrait. Now, she was being handed a role: proxy bride. Not for love. Not for choice. But for survival.

That afternoon, Marcella led her to the master bathroom—a temple of white marble and gold fixtures. It smelled of bleach and privilege.

On the sink, waiting like an accusation, sat a bottle.

Professional-grade hair lightener. Stark white. The kind that didn’t just color—it erased.

Marcella picked it up, turning it in her fingers like a relic. “They expect a blonde,” she said simply. “So you’ll be one.”

Amara’s breath caught.

She stepped forward, her reflection emerging in the gilded mirror. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, skin the color of twilight. The real her. The quiet one. The one who read Machiavelli for fun and could recite entire sonnets from memory. The one no one ever saw.

And now, they wanted her to burn it all away.

Marcella placed the bottle in her hand. Cold. Heavy.

“You have twenty-four hours,” she said, and left.

The door clicked shut.

Alone, Amara stared at her reflection. At the bottle. At the woman who was supposed to vanish.

Then, slowly, she unscrewed the cap.

The chemical scent bloomed in the air—sharp, violent, transformative.

Her fingers trembled.

But her voice, when she whispered to the mirror, was steady.

“I’m not her,” she said. “But I’ll play the part.”

Then she added, softer, a promise only she could hear:

“And when the time comes… I’ll make them regret it.”

She poured the powder into a bowl.

The clock began to tick.

A storm is coming.

And her name is not Selene.