Little Vixin

The wedding dress was perfect. Too perfect.

She stood before the mirror, running her fingers over the delicate lace, imagining the moment she would walk down the aisle. Excitement bubbled in her chest-until she heard it. A muffled giggle. A familiar voice.

Her heart pounded as she stepped closer to the bedroom door-their bedroom door. The one she was supposed to share with her soon-to-be husband. The laughter grew louder, tangled with breathless whispers and hushed moans.

With trembling hands, she pushed the door open.

There they were.

Her beloved fiancé. Her own sister. Tangled in sheets that were meant for her.

For a moment, the world stood still. The betrayal sliced through her like a blade, the pain too sharp to process. Her sister gasped, scrambling to cover herself with the silk sheets, while her fiancé froze, his expression shifting from shock to guilt, then to something even worse-indifference.

"You..." The word barely left her lips.

"Wait, I can explain," he started, not even bothering to move away from her sister's naked form.

She almost laughed. Explain? How did one explain something so vile?

She didn't cry. She didn't scream. Instead, she smiled. A slow, wicked smile.

"Congratulations," she said, her voice eerily calm. "You deserve each other."

Then she turned and walked away, leaving behind the wedding dress she had so carefully chosen, the perfect life she had imagined, and the love she had once believed in.

But she wasn't done.

No. If they wanted to play dirty, she would show them she wasn't the weak little girl they thought she was.

Minutes later, she stood in front of his door.

The penthouse suite at the most luxurious hotel in the city. The room belonged to him-the elder brother, the cold, untouchable man who rarely showed emotion. The one who had just returned from a business trip to attend his younger brother's wedding.

She knocked once.

When the door swung open, he stood there in his crisp, tailored suit, his tie slightly loosened from travel. His sharp, calculating eyes widened slightly at the sight of her-radiant and beautiful in a wedding dress that was no longer meant for a wedding.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, he tilted his head, his voice smooth and unreadable. "Shouldn't you be walking down the aisle right about now?"

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The scent of expensive cologne and whisky filled the air. "Change of plans," she murmured, locking eyes with him.

He arched a brow, intrigued but cautious. "I see."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, before she finally whispered, "Make me your woman."

His expression darkened, unreadable. "Do you know what you're asking for?"

"Yes." Her fingers trailed over the buttons of his shirt, undoing the first one. Then the second. "And I don't regret it."

His jaw clenched. He wasn't a man easily swayed by emotions, but something in her eyes made him pause. Something raw. Something broken.

Then, as if making a decision, he reached for her.

The wedding dress she once cherished became nothing more than fabric-torn by his hands, discarded like the love she had lost. And with it, she buried the past, embracing the darkness of her new reality.

She was no longer a helpless bride.

She was reborn.

And this was only the beginning.

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