Chapter 3 - Walking Down the Aisle of Lies

Mara POV

The dress weighs nothing and everything at once.

I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of Cross Manor's bridal suite. The woman looking back wears ivory silk. Her auburn hair is twisted into an elegant updo. Her makeup is flawless but her emerald eyes are hollow.

I don't recognize her.

"You look beautiful." Diana's voice cracks behind me.

I turn to find my sister standing in the doorway in her bridesmaid dress—pale pink, designer, paid for by him. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks like she wants to cry.

"Don't." I shake my head, my throat tight. "Please don't make this harder."

Diana crosses the room in three steps and grabs my hands. Her grip is fierce.

"You don't have to do this," she whispers urgently. "We'll figure something else out. We'll"

"There is nothing else." I squeeze back, willing her to understand. "Dad needs that treatment, Di. Your heart condition needs monitoring. Mom needs…"

"You." Diana's voice breaks completely. "Mom needs you. Not trapped in some contract marriage to a man who treats people like property."

The door swings open before I can respond.

Lucien's assistant—a severe woman named Patricia—steps inside with a clipboard. She doesn't smile.

"Five minutes, Mrs. Cross." She says the name like it's already mine. "The guests are seated."

Mrs. Cross, the words make my skin crawl.

Patricia leaves as Diana pulls me into a hug that feels like goodbye.

"I love you," she breathes against my shoulder. "And I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry." I hold her tighter, memorizing this moment. "Be happy. Live your life. That's all I want."

We break apart. I blink rapidly, refusing to let tears ruin the makeup that took an hour to apply.

**********

The walk to the ceremony is a blur.

Cross Manor's gardens have been transformed into something from a magazine—white roses everywhere, string quartet playing, three hundred guests in designer clothes. I recognize maybe ten people. The rest are Lucien's world. His business associates. His society connections, his kingdom.

Adrian meets me at the entrance to the aisle. He's supposed to give me away since Dad can't walk.

"You can still leave," he says quietly, offering his arm. His kind eyes search mine. "I'll drive you myself."

"And go where?" I take his arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. "Back to debt collectors and loan sharks?"

He flinches, we both know the answer. The music changes as everyone stands. I force myself to walk.

Each step down the white carpet feels like walking toward an execution. Faces blur past, cameras flash. Someone's crying—probably Mom. The sun is too bright and the roses smell suffocating.

Then I see him.

Lucien stands at the altar in a custom black tux, looking like every woman's fantasy. Tall. Powerful. Devastatingly handsome. His steel-blue eyes lock onto mine, and there's nothing in them. No warmth, no emotion. Just a cold assessment.

He's evaluating his purchase.

Adrian deposits me at the altar and steps back. I'm alone with Lucien under an arch of white roses while hundreds of people watch our lie unfold.

"You look acceptable," Lucien murmurs, so low only I can hear.

"You look like a man buying a wife," I whisper back, smiling for the cameras.

His jaw tightens. Good. I hope this costs him something, even if it's just his pride.

The officiant—some judge Lucien knows—begins the ceremony. Dearly beloved, gathered here today in a sacred union. Every phrase is a mockery.

I catch Diana's eye in the front row. She's clutching Mom's hand, both of them crying. Dad sits in his wheelchair beside them, his face stone cold. He refused to smile, he refused to pretend.

"Do you, Lucien Alexander Cross, take this woman"

"I do." Lucien's voice is clear.

The officiant turns to me. My hands are shaking. I clutch the bouquet of white roses so hard a thorn pierces my palm.

"Do you, Mara Elizabeth Quinn, take this man"

The words stick in my throat. I can't breathe. Can't think. This is it. This is the moment I sell myself.

I feel blood trickling from my palm where the thorn cut deep.

"I do." My voice is barely a whisper.

"Then by the power vested in me…" The judge beams like this is real. "I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride."

Lucien turns to me. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. Our eyes meet for half a second. I see nothing in him. No desire, no affection, just ownership.

Then he kisses me. Cameras flash like lightning, people applaud as someone whoops.

I stand frozen, letting him kiss me, hating every second of it. Hating him and hating myself more.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes away a tear I didn't know had fallen.

"Smile, Mrs. Cross," he murmurs against my ear. "You're mine now."

********

The reception is worse.

We sit at the head table like royalty, his hand possessively on my thigh under the table. I'm supposed to look happy in love instead I look like a doll with a painted smile.

Gregory Cross stands to give his speech. Lucien's father is tall, radiating the kind of power that built empires. His eyes—identical to his son's—sweep over the crowd.

"Today, my son secures his legacy." Gregory's voice carries across the tent. "The Cross family has always understood that marriage is about more than sentiment. It's about building something that lasts."

My skin crawls, he is not even pretending this is about love.

"Mara…" Gregory turns to me with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to the family. I trust you understand what's expected of you."

It's not a welcome. It's a warning.Lucien's hand tightens on my thigh. A reminder, I smile and nod like a good little bride.

Diana gives a toast next, her voice shaking. She talks about sisterhood and sacrifice and strength. She doesn't mention love once. The cake cutting, the first dance. The endless photographs. Each moment is choreographed, performed, utterly hollow.

I'm smiling so hard my face hurts. Then I see her.

A woman in the back of the tent, standing alone near the exit. Platinum blonde hair in a perfect chignon. Designer dress that whispers old money. She's watching me with an expression I can't read.

She looks like she belongs in Lucien's world. Like she fits. Like I never will. Our eyes meet across the crowd. She raises her champagne glass in a small salute, the gesture feels like a threat.

She starts walking toward me.

Lucien is pulled away by business associates, leaving me alone at the table. The woman moves through the crowd with practiced grace, her heels clicking on the parquet floor.

She stops in front of me, that unreadable smile still in place.

"You're the bride." Her accent is British, refined. "How lovely."

"Thank you." I set down my champagne, every instinct screaming danger. "I don't think we've met."

"No, we haven't. I'm Evelyn Rowe." She extends a perfectly manicured hand. "I used to be engaged to your husband."

The world tilts.

She sits in the chair Lucien just vacated, crossing her legs elegantly. Her perfume is expensive. Everything about her screams wealth, breeding, belonging.

"We have so much to talk about, don't we?" Evelyn leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.