Allena~

Today is my wedding day.

Those words should have carried magic, excitement, nervous butterflies, the kind of emotions every girl dreams about. But as I sit here, in front of the mirror, with four stylists and makeup artists working tirelessly around me, I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The room is filled with chatter—the sound of hairspray, the clinking of makeup brushes, the rustle of silk fabric as one of the women adjusts the folds of my gown. My reflection stares back at me: flawless, radiant, every strand of hair in place, every detail of my attire perfected. On the surface, I look like a bride out of a fairytale.

I'm wearing my dream wedding gown—a gown I had once chosen in secret from a magazine years ago, never knowing it would become real. The fabric is pure white, glowing under the light, with a sweetheart neckline that flatters my frame. A slit runs daringly up my right thigh, something I would have been thrilled about if this moment were mine to cherish. My hair is pinned in a stylish puff, curls cascading down, framing my face delicately. A transparent veil covers me, secured by a sparkling tiara. Silver stilettos glimmer on my feet, completing the picture of a bride meant to be admired.

But beauty is cruel when your heart is hollow.

I should be trembling with joy, giggling with nervousness, whispering to my bridesmaids, or praying for a perfect future. Instead, I am empty. My chest feels like stone. My eyes, though dressed in mascara, hide an ocean of grief. Because this isn't a wedding—it's a sale. I am not becoming a wife. I am being sold off like an object.

If circumstances had been different, if I had chosen this man for myself, I might have been overjoyed. But fate never gave me that choice.

My groom—Aaron Gray. The name feels foreign even on my tongue. I barely know him. All I've seen of him is a single, cold meeting outside his company, where his words sliced through me sharper than any blade: "Don't even think of being my wife. I already have someone I love, and I'll continue loving her. If you have a problem, say no now. But don't throw tantrums after marriage."

I should have screamed no.
I should have begged to be spared.
But what choice did I have?

The one man I trusted most—my father—betrayed me.

My throat tightens as the memory hits me. The man who taught me to walk, who held me when I cried, who once swore I was his little princess—sold me. Sold me to a billionaire in exchange for saving his niece's life. His own niece over his daughter. His blood over my dignity.

Who am I to him? Not his daughter, not his pride, not his little girl. Just a bargaining chip. Just someone else's child he tolerated until she could be useful.

A bitter laugh slips from my lips, startling one of the makeup artists. I wave her off. My thoughts spiral—how cruel life is, how the people you place in your heart become the sharpest knives. All the years of love, of trust, of devotion... all revealed to be a cruel joke.

Tears sting my eyes, but before I can break, the door opens. She walks in.

Mother.

That's what I call her now. Not Mumma. Never again. She lost that privilege the moment she agreed to this deal. Calling her Mother is my only rebellion, my small revenge. And I know it hurts her, because she always begged to be called Mumma.

Her eyes soften as she sees me. "Oh, my daughter looks so beautiful," she whispers, voice trembling with emotion.

I look at her through the mirror, my voice cold as ice. "I'm not your daughter, Mother. I'm just your burden. Your way of paying back this family's debt."

Her face crumples. "Don't say that, baby. You're always my little girl, and you always will be."

I jerk my face away when she reaches for me. The warmth I once felt for her has been shattered. "If I were your little girl, if you were truly my Mumma, you never would have agreed to this. You let them sell me, Mother. You let them sell me to a billionaire!" My voice breaks, tears spilling over. I swipe them away angrily and rise from the chair.

I don't wait for her reply. I walk out.

The music begins. My heart pounds as I step onto the aisle, holding Mr. Evans's arm. The hall is decorated beautifully, flowers draped like cascading clouds, candles flickering softly. Guests rise, their faces filled with admiration, whispers echoing—She looks stunning.

But I can barely breathe.

At the far end, he waits. Aaron Gray. My groom. My stranger.

He stands tall, commanding, dressed in a black Armani tuxedo that fits him like a second skin. His shoulders are broad, his stance powerful. His hair is perfectly styled, his jawline sharp, his lips a sinful shade of red, kissed with stubble. His eyes—icy ocean-blue—pierce through the distance between us.

For a heartbeat, I forget to walk. He looks like a Greek god—perfect, untouchable. But perfection is dangerous. His expression is stoic, unreadable, a mask that terrifies me.

My cold hand is placed into his. His grip tightens, too tight, painful. I flinch, but he doesn't loosen it. His hold feels more like a chain than a touch.

The priest's voice rings out: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here to witness the vows of Aaron Gray and Allena Wotson before Jesus Christ."

Aaron repeats his vows, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, like a man reciting from memory, not heart.

Then it is my turn. My lips tremble as I speak, the holy vows burning my throat. I can't hide my emotions—fear, despair, and the faintest hope that maybe, somehow, this man isn't as cruel as he seems.

"Exchange the rings," the priest says.

When Aaron slides the ring onto my finger, his touch sends a strange, electric shiver through me. Something foreign. Something dangerous.

"You may now kiss the bride."

I freeze. Aaron lifts my veil. His lips brush mine—a fleeting peck, quick, detached. But my body betrays me. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and the brief touch lingers like fire.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The crowd cheers. Applauds. Smiles. I stand there, hollow.

Reception begins. Guests congratulate us. Photographers flash cameras. The bouquet toss happens, laughter fills the room, Aaron kneels to remove the garter. His fingers graze my skin and butterflies erupt in my stomach, though I hate myself for it. He tosses it without looking back.

Then the first dance begins.

He leads me to the floor, hand on my waist, fingers gripping my other hand. For a fleeting second, as the music sways us, I almost feel like a bride. Almost.

Until his grip tightens. Pain shoots through my side. I gasp.

He leans in, lips brushing my ear, voice low and venomous.
"Welcome to my living hell, Mrs. Allena Aaron Gray. Those vows? Lies. From this moment, I vow only to make you regret marrying me. I will turn your life into a nightmare. Now... you'll see the real Aaron Gray."

He pulls back, an evil smirk curving his lips. My body trembles, my blood turns cold.

My husband. My captor. My destroyer.

I force my face into stillness as the crowd claps around us, unaware of the storm brewing in his words. But inside, I shatter.

Oh God, please help me. Dad, give me strength. Because I know—this marriage will not be kind. This man will not be kind. And my life, from this moment, belongs to darkness.