Chapter 4

Everyone outside was moving like clockwork—perfecting every last detail. Inside the makeup room, I sat still, like I had been for the past hour. The mirror in front of me showed a woman I barely recognized.

My hair was twisted into an elaborate updo, pinned with white pearls and tiny dried flowers that matched the pale tone of my gown. But for now, I wasn’t wearing it. I was still in the simple ivory slip they gave me while the final touches were being made. A thin robe hung loosely over my shoulders, but it did nothing to stop the cold sinking into my bones.

I should’ve felt beautiful. Instead, I felt like throwing up.

My skin was pale beneath the layers of makeup. My cheeks powdered, contoured, blushed—yet nothing could cover the dullness in my eyes. The emptiness and ache that had been growing for weeks. My lips trembled every few minutes. The makeup artist kept touching them up, murmuring that everything would be fine. That I’d look perfect.

I hadn’t eaten yesterday. I couldn’t eat today. My stomach was locked in knots, my chest tight, my body caught in fight-or-flight—except there was no flight. No escape. And worst of all… no one was fighting for me.

In the two weeks since that cursed arrangement, I hadn’t seen him. Sebastian Kingston. Not a single message. No calls. No attempt at a formal meeting, not even a shallow conversation to pretend we were willing participants. Nothing.

Just a name. A string of flattering headlines and glowing interviews I had no choice but to scroll through in the dead of night, trying to convince myself that maybe he wasn’t a monster.

That didn’t help. Because everyone said the same thing. They all adored him.

Sebastian Kingston. 28 years old. The youngest governor in South Valemont’s history. Harvard-educated. A man the public worshipped—clean record, sharp policies. A political prodigy. And, of course… gorgeous. He had the kind of face that made camera flashes linger. High cheekbones, straight nose, strong jawline always clean-shaven. Thick dark hair, usually slicked back in place, and eyes that looked silver under certain lights. He wore suits like he was born in them—three-piece charcoal or midnight blue, always buttoned at the right time, always with the faintest smirk on his lips.

The kind of man that made people listen.

And maybe if I had been anyone else… I would have admired him.  But I wasn’t anyone else. I wasn’t drawn to him because of his looks. I was drawn to him because I recognized them.

I knew those eyes I have seen in internet. I had seen those same eyes in my father. In every man who walked through our home with a smile on their faces. All charm and grace and ambition… until they closed the door behind them and became someone else entirely.

Every politician was the same. And I had a feeling Sebastian was no different.

I looked around the room, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar. But it was all foreign.

The velvet chair I sat on. The rack of gowns lined up beside the wall. The wedding planner’s clipboard discarded on a nearby table with checkmarks and names I didn’t recognize.

The venue? I didn’t choose it.

The food? I didn’t taste it.

The guests? I didn’t invite them.

Everything was done without me. Because this wasn't my wedding. It was my family’s union with other powerful family. I was just the girl they dragged in to wear the dress.

The makeup artist fluttered around me, adjusting the tiniest things as if it mattered. My hands were cold in my lap. Then, something inside me broke—quietly. I stood up. The makeup artist startled, nearly dropping her brush.

“Miss Lorelie—are you okay?”

I didn’t answer and just grabbed my long coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on over the gown, clutching it close around my waist. My chest was tightening. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to feel like a human for five seconds.

I walked quickly toward the door and had just reached for the handle when it opened before I could.

My mother.

Celeste Montgomery stepped inside, blocking the exit with perfect timing. Her dress was immaculate, a soft champagne silk that matched her pearls. Her red lipstick untouched. Her eyes scanned my coat. In an instant, her brows rose.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, her voice low.

And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again. I looked her straight in the eyes.

“I need air,” I said honestly. My voice wavered, “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.”

She blinked once, slowly.

“No.”

Just that. One word.  My throat tightened. Panic climbed higher up my chest, wrapping around my ribs. I clutched the coat tighter and took a shaky step forward.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please, Mom. Help me. Tell Dad to stop this. Tell him I can’t—”

I didn’t see the hand until it hit me—a sharp slap. The crack echoed in the room, followed by silence.

The makeup artist—a woman who worked for us, loyal and carefully chosen—froze mid-step. Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing. She simply excused herself quickly, brushing past my mother and closing the door behind her, locking me inside with the woman who never truly saw me.

I touched my cheek. It stung. The skin was already tender from the last one, and now it burned fresh. My mother stepped closer, towering even in her heels.

“You listen to me, Lorelie,” she hissed, all the sugar in her voice gone. “You will walk down that aisle. You will smile. You will not embarrass us again.”

I stared at her, horrified, blinking back tears that refused to fall. “Mom.”

“No,” she said, almost too softly. “You’re a Montgomery problem. You are a shame we covered up with pearls and headlines. Don’t pretend this is about love. You’re lucky we found someone willing to take an illegitimate woman you.”

Her words cut deeper than the slap. My lips trembled as I murmured, “Its father’s shame”

She frowned, “What did you just say?”

I shook my head, “Nothing”

My mother shakes her head and smirked, “You think your father will let you run? I’ll tell him to post guards on every exit. Every window. If you even look like you’re going to run, you’ll be escorted down that aisle by force.”

She turned without another word, heels clicking against the floor as she walked out, leaving me alone—again. As soon as the door shut. I ran to the bathroom attached to the dressing suite, fell to my knees, and threw up.

Everything I hadn’t eaten still found a way to crawl out of me. My body trembled. My palms pressed against cold tile. My chest heaved, empty. I stayed there, crouched on the floor sobbing silently.