He rose then, smooth and slow, leaving the veil delicately perched atop my head as if I had become part of some grotesque display. His satisfaction radiated from him like heat from a fire; I could almost feel it licking at my skin.
“I’ll be ready at midnight,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. “You should be too.”
The finality of his words hung in the air like a sentence being pronounced. My heart raced as panic coursed through me—a desperate instinct to run surged within me again, but where would I go? The realization weighed heavily on me; I was trapped in this house of horrors with no escape route.
As he stepped through the door and out into the hall, silence enveloped me once more. The room felt colder without him there, an echoing reminder of what was about to unfold. I looked down at the veil resting in my lap—a symbol of everything he intended to claim.
With trembling fingers, I reached for it again. This wasn’t just fabric; it was a declaration of ownership that twisted around my chest like a vice grip.
He paused, then without turning, added, “Wear the dress, Persephone. And no more running. This time, there won’t be wolves—just consequences.”
I sat in stunned silence, the weight of his words wrapping around me like a noose. My heart thundered in my chest, drowning out everything else. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in with the remnants of his threat.
The veil lay heavy in my lap, its delicate lace shimmering mockingly under the harsh light. I stared at it, the fabric a cruel reminder of the fate that awaited me. Hades’ voice echoed in my mind—“Wear the dress, Persephone.”
I had thought I could run from this, from him. But every time I tried to escape, he was there—always watching, always waiting. He had turned my defiance into a game, and somehow, I was losing.
My fingers trembled as they brushed against the veil’s edge. I had never envisioned myself as a bride—definitely not in this twisted arrangement where my wedding felt more like an auction than a celebration. This wasn’t love; it was possession. I glanced toward the door again, half-expecting him to burst back through and remind me that there would be no escaping him.
What did he mean by consequences? The mere thought sent chills racing down my spine. Hadn’t I endured enough? Each moment with him twisted tighter around my throat, suffocating me until all I could do was comply or rebel against something so powerful it threatened to crush me.
With each heartbeat that passed, doubt crept deeper into my mind. The altar loomed before me—not just as a destination but as an irreversible transformation. Would I walk down that aisle merely to sign away what little freedom I had left? Or was this truly just the beginning?
I felt hollow inside, torn between anger and resignation. As much as I wanted to fight against it all—to scream at him for trapping me—I couldn’t deny the pull he had over me. It terrified me how much power he wielded without lifting a finger.
My breath quickened again as reality settled like fog in my chest; there would be no fairytale ending for someone like me. This wasn’t about love or romance—it was about survival under his control.
And yet… even knowing this truth didn’t diminish the fire inside me that burned against his hold. It only stoked it further—an ember fighting desperately against the inevitable darkening night ahead.
Chapter 10
Hades
The sun bled out over the horizon like a throat slit clean—slow, deliberate, almost beautiful in its ruin. Crimson soaked the estate grounds, washing everything in a death-kissed glow. Twilight roses bloomed like bruises in the garden, their deep purples and wine-drenched reds curling up the wrought iron like they were trying to escape. They wouldn’t. No one did.
Candles flickered along the aisle, restless little things, casting shadows like ghosts I hadn’t invited. Good. Let the dead watch.
I stood at the edge of it all, hands in my pockets, taking in the scene I’d built like a god admiring his altar. Stripped of fluff and fantasy. Just the bones of the thing.
A stone altar.
A black velvet runner that split the garden like a scar.
Two chairs.
One white arch twisted with vines so dark they looked burnt.
No music. No crowd. No lies.
Just her. Just me. Just the chains she’d be slipping on with manicured fingers.
This wasn’t a wedding. This was a claim.
And Persephone?
She’d wear that veil tonight not as a symbol of love—don’t make me laugh—but as a shroud over her rebellion.
A final soft thing before it all turned hard.
