The day you were supposed to say “I do,” the entire ballroom smelled like white roses, expensive champagne, and beautifully dressed lies.
The cameras were ready.
The guests whispered behind crystal glasses and perfect smiles.
At the altar, under an arch of imported flowers, Leonardo Harrington waited for you with the calm confidence of a man who believed he had already bought not just the wedding, but the woman walking toward him.
You moved down the aisle in a dress so beautiful it looked like it belonged in a fairytale.
French lace. A long veil. Tiny pearls stitched by hand. A train that slid across the polished marble floor like moonlight.
But underneath all that perfection, your knees trembled.
Your ribs burned.
Every step felt like walking across broken glass.
No one noticed.
Or maybe no one wanted to notice.
Your mother sat in the front row, crying into a silk handkerchief. Not from joy. From fear.
Your father stared down at his lap, his knuckles white around the program.
The Harrington family’s business partners smiled like satisfied wolves. To them, this wedding was not love. It was a merger. A contract. A signature wrapped in flowers.
You reached the altar.
Leonardo took your hand.
Too hard.
His fingers pressed into the bruises already hidden beneath the sleeve of your gown.
“Smile,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Do not embarrass me.”
You lifted your eyes.
