I hate them.
Not for what they’re doing, but for what they’re part of. For their silence. For being the hands that smooth me into this perfect bridal costume while the woman underneath it screams.
The scent of jasmine clings to my robe. It was chosen for me—like everything else. My breakfast. My routine. My life. They’ve fed me like a pet these past days. Washed my clothes, brushed my hair, and replaced my shoes without ever uttering a single word.
Today, they laid a white lace bra and thong on the vanity, as if I’m supposed to wear it for the man who plans to defile me tonight. I left it where it was, untouched, a silent refusal. Instead, I pulled on black—silk against my skin like a deliberate act of defiance in a world that wants me soft and compliant.
The dress waits in the corner, pristine and sickening. Pearls, ivory satin, delicate straps. It should be something beautiful. Something a girl dreams of. But when I look at it, all I see is a cage stitched with thread.
And I’m walking toward that cage like a lamb.
The tightness in my chest grows with every second. I haven’t slept. I’ve barely eaten. My nerves buzz like wasps under my skin, the weight of what’s coming pressing heavier and heavier until I think my ribcage might crack under it.
It’s not just that I don’t want to marry Anthony.
It’s that marrying him feels like being sentenced to a life of hell.
A sharp knock at the door draws all three women to stillness. They freeze, then glance at one another as if unsure who should answer. Then the door opens without permission.
Anthony Falco walks into the room.
The man oozes smug entitlement in his fitted black tuxedo and polished shoes. His blond hair is slicked back with a precision that makes him look more plastic than princely. His eyes sweep the room before they land on me, and his smile curves into something too sharp to be kind.
“Out,” he says, barely raising his voice.
The attendants hesitate.
“I saidout.”
They scatter quickly, heads down, slipping past him like rats fleeing a room. The door clicks shut behind them, and then it’s just him and me.
I pull my robe tighter and stand.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, tone like ice.
“I don’t care about traditions. I make my own rules, sweetheart.”
He walks into my space, his eyes dragging down the length of me with arrogance. “You clean up nice.”
“Leave.”
He walks past the dress, brushing the sleeve with his fingers. “Shame to cover up all that fire with satin. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy unwrapping you later.”
My stomach rolls.
He steps closer, and I back away until my spine meets the wall. “Don’t touch me.”
Anthony’s smile deepens, cruel and oily. “Still playing the proud princess? Come on, Zara. You knew this day was coming.”
“I never agreed to this.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a Kavanagh woman. You do what you’re told.”
I lunge for the other side of the room, but he’s faster. He catches my wrist, yanking me back. The motion jerks me off balance, and I stumble into him.
His hands are hot, greedy, already pawing at the knot of my robe. I slap him hard across the face, and the sound echoes through the suite.
He stills. Then he laughs. “God, I love it when you fight.”
