Chapter 2

The dress felt too tight. Not because it didn’t fit.. these designers knew their craft. It was tight because everything about this day felt like a trap sewn into silk and lace.

“Hold still, dear,” one of them said, tugging gently at the fabric around my ribs. She had kind eyes but moved like someone used to dressing mannequins, not real people.

“Just a few more pins,” the other added. “This neckline is magic on you.”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching myself in the mirror.

The girl staring back didn’t look like me. She looked… expensive. The gown was ivory with delicate floral patterns embroidered into the bodice. The sleeves were sheer and fitted, the skirt wide but soft, like it had been poured from cream. A veil waited on the hanger behind me. The final touch.

“You’ll be the most beautiful bride New York’s seen all year,” the first designer said with a smile.

My lips moved, but I didn’t smile back. Instead, I glanced at the phone on the table beside me.

Last night, I’d heard Evelyn talking on phone from the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, and she hadn’t bothered to whisper.

“She’s already agreed. The money’s been moved.”

I wasn’t being married. I was being sold. Polished up, packaged, and delivered.

The designers kept fussing. One adjusted the train, the other double-checked the seams. Their chatter faded into background noise.

I stared at my reflection again.

Who was I supposed to be today? A bride? A daughter? A pawn?

My palms felt clammy again. I pressed them to the sides of the dress to dry them. My chest ached.

How was I supposed to marry a man I’d never met?

Worse.. how was I supposed to survive a marriage with someone who might hate me as much as I already hated this whole setup?

And him…

The so-called groom.

Ryan Graham.

Crippled, Johanna had said. Dying. A ghost in a suit. Her voice had been so smug when she said it, like it was the punchline of a joke only she found funny.

But if he was truly dying, why agree to this marriage at all?

Another loose thread in a story that didn’t add up.

I clenched my jaw and forced the thoughts to pause.

But my gaze shifted again.. this time to the corner of the mirror, where my eyes caught their own reflection.

Dad.

I’d hated him. For three years. For not looking back as I was dragged away. For letting Evelyn and Johanna ruin my life without a word.

But he’d been sick? Since after my arrest?

He hadn’t ignored me.

He hadn’t abandoned me.

He just… couldn’t fight for me.

The guilt hit fast and hard. I turned away from the mirror slightly, like that might hide the thoughts rushing in.

Had Evelyn done that to him, too?

Had she poisoned his world the same way she poisoned mine?

The look in his eyes that day.. the way he’d just stood there, cold, silent.. it hadn’t been anger.

It had been emptiness.

How long had she been controlling everything?

There was a soft knock on the door.

The older of the two designers peeked out and nodded. “It’s time.”

They adjusted the last pin. One handed me the veil, and I nodded. My throat felt tight.

“You look stunning,” one of them whispered.

I didn’t say thank you. I couldn’t.

The hallway outside was quiet.

My bouquet.. a neat arrangement of cream roses, eucalyptus, and pale blue thistle.. sat waiting in a crystal vase. I took it, then stepped forward, heels clicking against the polished floor.

The doors to the hall opened slowly.

I walked in alone.

The room was huge. White walls, gold trim, a high ceiling covered in glass chandeliers. Rows of chairs filled with people in black suits and pastel dresses.

The kind of guests who smiled politely but didn’t know who they were here for.

My eyes scanned the crowd.

There. Evelyn, sitting front row, expression unreadable. Johanna beside her, lips curved in a small, smug smile.

Like they’d won.

I looked away quickly, blinking fast. The tears threatened again. But I pushed them down. Not here. Not now.

Then I saw him.

At the altar.

Seated in a sleek black wheelchair, dressed in a tailored dark suit. Broad shoulders. Clean-shaven. Thick dark hair. Striking features.. strong jaw, full brows, lips set in a hard line.

He wasn’t looking at me. Just straight ahead. Like none of this mattered.

He looked… cold. Detached. But not weak.

Definitely not dying.

And not what I expected at all.

The music played. Soft, instrumental. I kept walking. My hands were steady now. One foot after the other.

I stopped beside him. He didn’t turn to look at me. Not yet.

The officiant welcomed the guests. Gave a small speech about love and family. I barely heard a word.

Then the vows. Standard lines. We repeated them. My voice shook once. Just once.

Then, “You may kiss the bride.”

A pause.

I didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then, without warning, he leaned forward. One hand lightly gripped the armrest of his chair. The other reached for my chin.

His lips pressed to mine.

It wasn’t a brush. It wasn’t gentle or hesitant.

It was a kiss. A real one.

Not sloppy. Not soft.

Intentional.

I froze.

Then pulled back.

A breath caught in my throat. I saw something flicker in his eyes.. confusion, maybe. Or something else. But it was gone too fast.

The officiant moved on, thanking guests, calling for applause. Some clapped. Others took photos.

My body moved on autopilot. I barely noticed the hands that reached out to shake mine. The camera flashes. The murmurs.

Then he leaned closer.

His voice was low. Almost quiet enough to miss.

“Smile for the photos,” he said. “Let’s not ruin their perfect show.”

His words were smooth.

But the edge in them? Ice.

I turned to him slowly.

So he wasn’t happy about this either.

Fine.

Neither was I.

But I’d survived worse.

Let the games begin.