WHISPERS OF REGRET

The scent of fresh roses and burnt incense lingered in the air as Beauty sat still in front of the mirror. Her bridal veil framed her face like soft clouds on a summer morning. She was the very picture of serenity, but inside, her nerves churned with questions she dared not ask aloud.

This was the day she had waited for. Prayed for. Saved herself for.

Raised in a devout Christian home, Beauty had been molded into the ideal church girl virtuous, obedient, pure. Her life had been a series of carefully placed boundaries: no dating until eighteen, no sleepovers, no kissing, no touching, and certainly no sex before marriage. Her virginity was not just a part of her body; it was her pride, her offering to the man who would love her forever.

That man, now waiting at the altar, was Drake.

Drake was everything she was not bold, street smart, charming, and dangerously experienced. A former ladies' man with a past full of passionate nights and short-lived relationships, he had chosen her. Beauty. The quiet receptionist who walked with grace and crossed her legs modestly even in trousers. He had met her at a church event and fallen in love with her innocence, her calm, her difference.

He had fallen in love with her silence.

The music changed, pulling her back to the present. Evelyn, her best friend and bridesmaid, entered the room, smiling nervously. "They're ready for you."

Beauty stood, holding her bouquet like a lifeline. Her knees shook beneath the white satin gown. Evelyn squeezed her hand and whispered, "You're going to be fine. He loves you."

With a breath, she walked toward her new life.

---

The wedding ceremony was simple, elegant, and filled with whispers of admiration. Drake looked dazzling in a navy-blue tux, his eyes fixed on Beauty like she was the only person in the room. As she walked down the aisle, his heart skipped. She was stunning not just physically, but in her honesty, her soul.

He remembered the first time he touched her hand it was like touching a sacred object. She had pulled back quickly, cheeks flushed, murmuring, "We're not supposed to touch like that yet."

It had frustrated him then, but now he respected her restraint. It made her... special.

When they said their vows, Beauty's voice shook. "To love and to cherish... to honor... and to keep only to him..."

She meant every word, but she didn't fully understand the cost.

---

That night, the hotel room was cold. Drake took off his jacket slowly and watched as Beauty stepped out of the bathroom in a silk robe Evelyn had forced her to buy. She looked nervous, like a bird unsure of its wings.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice low.

She gave a small smile. "Thank you."

He stepped closer, took her hands. "We don't have to rush."

"I know," she whispered. "But I want to... for you."

They lay side by side on the bed, the air thick with anticipation, but the room felt unnaturally quiet like something sacred was about to be broken. The sheets were crisp and untouched, freshly laid like a stage set for something she wasn't sure she was ready to perform.

His kisses were soft at first, his lips brushing hers with a gentleness that made her chest ache. He cupped her face like she was delicate, like a porcelain thing he was afraid to drop. For a moment, she wanted to melt into it to let herself be carried by the warmth in his touch. But as his hands drifted lower, slipping to her thighs, she stiffened. Her muscles betrayed her before her voice could.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath against her neck.

"I'm trying," she whispered, barely audible.

He didn't stop. She didn't stop him either.

When the moment came, it wasn't like the books or the stories girls whispered about in the back of classrooms. It wasn't magical. It wasn't freeing. It was sharp, jarring like being split open from the inside. She gasped, her body flinching instinctively.

He stopped, concern flooding his face. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, even as her eyes watered. "Yes."

It was a lie. But what was she supposed to say? That it felt more like punishment than passion?

He continued, slower now, gentler, but the discomfort didn't fade. It was in her hips, her chest, her throat tight, resisting. Her mind raced ahead of her body, asking questions she didn't have the courage to voice. Is this what I've waited for? Is this all it is? She closed her eyes, and tried to disappear into the pillow.

It ended quickly.

Not because he didn't care she could feel that he did but because something in her silence made him feel like a stranger in his own home, like an intruder pressing too hard on a locked door. He rolled over beside her, suddenly clumsy, unsure of what to do with his hands, his breath, his love.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I just... I didn't know it would feel like that."

He kissed her forehead, a gesture that felt more paternal than passionate. "It's okay. We have time."

But in the stillness that followed, as his arm draped loosely over her waist, Beauty stared into the dim ceiling and felt nothing but the dull throb between her legs and a rising sense of shame she didn't know how to name. She'd imagined this night differently,thought it would seal something sacred between them. Instead, it opened something hollow.

He loved her. She knew that. But there was a hunger in his touch she hadn't been able to meet. And though he hadn't said it, she felt it in the way he shifted away slightly, in the way his breathing changed.

And for her, that night didn't mark the blossoming of desire. It marked the beginning of pretending. Of performing. Of pressure.

A new silence settled between them not the silence of comfort, but the kind that comes when two people lie beside each other with thoughts neither dares to speak.