The Forced Bride

This was supposed to be the start of something new. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I walked down the hallway of the Martin’s mansion in my wedding dress. The heavy fabric brushing against the carpet with every step.

Soft, breathy moans drifted from the honeymoon suite ahead.

I stopped. The sound cut through the quiet like a warning. Then came the slow, rhythmic creak of the bed. My fingers tightened around the bouquet. It can’t be what it sounds like.

But the moans continued. Low. Intimate. Familiar.

I moved closer. Arthur’s deep voice rumbled through the door. “I still don’t understand why they chose your sister over you, for me when you are this good.”

Elena’s breathless laugh answered. “Stop talking about her and go faster, Arthur… please.”

My chest twisted painfully. I hesitated, hand hovering near the doorknob, then pushed the door open.

The sight hit me like a punch.

My husband had my sister bent over the edge of the bed, her pink dress bunched around her waist. He stood behind her, thrusting slowly and deep. His hands gripped her hips tightly. The sharp slap of skin on skin filled the room. Elena moaned, pushing back against him, her face flushed with pleasure.

I couldn’t breathe.

Arthur leaned over her, gripping her hair as he drove deeper. “Like that?” he murmured.

Elena’s eyes opened. She saw me. Surprise flashed, then her lips curved into a smirk. She didn’t stop. She arched her back more, moaning louder while staring straight at me.

Arthur hadn’t noticed me yet. He kept thrusting steadily, completely focused on her, his breathing rough. Elena’s moans grew sharper as she pushed back against him, still staring at me with that mocking smile.

I stood frozen in my wedding gown. The room smelled of sweat, perfume, and roses meant for me. My stomach churned.

“Arthur…” My voice cracked.

“Stop… please.”

Elena’s moans grew sharper, making sure it got louder than the name I called so Arthur wouldn't notice me. Each moan slicing deeper into me. She watched me the whole time, daring me to stay.

Tears burned my eyes as I backed away and ran.

We just got married for Christ sake.

My name is Sophie Miller. My life didn’t start with love, but for a short time, I got a taste of it.

I was five years old staying at Ophelia orphanage center, when the Millers adopted me. They had tried for years to have a child of their own, but nothing worked. The day they brought me home, Mom cried happy tears as she knelt in front of me. “You’re our little miracle, Sophie,” she whispered, pulling me into the warmest hug I had ever known. Dad lifted me onto his shoulders and paraded me around the living room like I was the prize he had always wanted.

Those first few years felt like a dream. Mom would wake me up with kisses on my forehead. In the evenings, Dad carried me on his shoulders through the garden, pointing out flowers. “You’re our girl,” he would say, ruffling my hair. I believed him. For the first time, I had a real family.

I remember one birthday when I turned seven. Mom and dad threw me a little party with just the three of us. But sometimes I notice when they are alone. They were still unhappy because I wasn't really their child.

But everything changed after Elena arrived.

Five years after my adoption, my adoptive mom gave birth to Elena. At first, I tried to be a good big sister. I helped fetch diapers and sang lullabies to her when she cried. For a few months, things stayed mostly okay. Mom still hugged me sometimes, though the hugs grew shorter. Dad still talked to me, but his eyes would drift toward the crib whenever Elena made a sound.

The love they had for me began to fade slowly, but I didn't mind as long as it was still there a little.

Mom became busier. “Elena needs me right now, Sophie. Be a good girl and play by yourself.” She would say. Dad no longer carried me on his shoulders. Instead, he spent evenings rocking Elena to sleep. I didn't want to feel useless so I started doing small chores to help out, setting the table, folding laundry, hoping it would make them notice me again. It didn’t. The special treatment I once enjoyed vanished like it had never existed.

By the time my little brother, Marcus, was born two years later, the shift was complete.

The house no longer revolved around me. It revolved around the two biological children. Elena and Marcus got new clothes, new toys, and the best parts of every meal. I got hand-me-downs and leftovers. Mom would brush Elena’s hair for twenty minutes every morning, braiding it with colorful ribbons, while I rushed to brush my own before school. Dad took Elena and Marcus to the park every weekend. I was told to stay home and “watch the house.”

As time passed, they stopped investing in me completely. When Elena and Marcus started extra classes, piano for her, soccer for him, my own school activities dried up. “We can’t afford everything for all three,” Dad explained one day when I asked about joining an art club. “You understand, right?” His tone made it clear I was expected to say yes. So I did.

At home, Mother would wake me up early to make breakfast for everyone. Clean the kitchen, mopped the floors, and washed clothes while Elena played with her dolls and Marcus ran around the house. No one bothered to join me or thank me. If I made a mistake, like leaving a single plate unclean, Mom would sigh loudly. “Sophie, why can’t you be more careful? We have enough to deal with.”

Elena learned from them quickly. She became spoiled. By the time she was ten, she treated me, who was seven years older, the same way her parents did like I was some maid in my parents house.

“Sophie, get me some juice,” she would order, not even looking up from her phone. If I took too long, she would complain to Mom, who always took her side, spoiling her the most.

Marcus wasn’t much better. At eight years old, he already copied his sister. “Sophie, you’re supposed to clean my room too!” he shouted one day after spilling his toys everywhere. When I told him to pick them up himself, he ran to Dad crying.

Dad didn’t ask what happened. He just looked at me with disappointment. “Help your brother, Sophie. Stop making him cry. Don't forget we took you in when no one else did. You are the elderly one, act like it!”

I became the maid, the helper, the outsider who owed them for taking me in. No one said it out loud every day, but I felt it in every ignored glance and unfair chore. And whenever I complain, they would say they showed me so much love, even when my parents couldn't.

The words hurt so much.

The only thing that kept me sane was my liking for art.

Late at night, after finishing all my chores, I would sneak up to the old attic with my small, worn sketchpad and the cheap pencils I bought with money I saved from returning bottles. The attic smelled of dust and old wood, but up there, no one could reach me.

From time to time, I learned how to draw on my own. Each stroke brought a quiet peace I couldn’t find anywhere else. I was getting good at it. Really good. The lines flowed naturally, capturing feelings I couldn’t express with words.

But art was my secret. If anyone found out, they would call it a waste of time when there were floors to mop and dishes to wash.

I continue living in this mess of a family, with everything getting worse for the next seven years.

One ordinary evening, the four of us sat around the dinner table. Steam rose from plates of rice and stew. Elena scrolled through her phone, giggling at something. Marcus kicked his legs under the table. Mom passed food around, giving bigger servings to the younger ones.

Dad was in a rare good mood, talking about the family restaurant.

“Maybe this month will be better,” he said with a small smile.

That was when his phone rang.

He answered it cheerfully, but his expression changed fast. The smile disappeared. His shoulders tensed. He listened quietly, then said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up.

The table fell silent.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, her voice tight with worry.

Dad rubbed his face with both hands. He looked exhausted. His eyes moved around the table and landed on me for a moment. Something cold and calculating passed through them.

He sighed heavily.

“Tomorrow is the due date,” he said slowly. “And I've completely forgotten.”

The silence grew heavier. Then he continued, his voice low and heavy.

“They are coming tomorrow for their money.”