Alpha's Wrong Bride: Seraphine

Dante's POV

"You'll marry her."

No morning hello. No how's-your-shift. Just that-like it was as instinctive as ordering me to pull out a heart on the operating table.

I didn't look up. Just kept tracing the rim of my glass, letting the silence hang between us like a third entity in the room.

"And if I don't?

He walked as always-measured, polished, cold. Predator in a suit. "You will. We don't pair at random, Dante."

I laughed, hard and acidic. "She's not my mate."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"That's your human," he said to me, voice as smooth as rocks over marble. "We don't let the beast have its way. We tame it."

And there it was. That Volmore mantra. The type of ideology passed from teeth to throat. My father was not a man. He was a wolf that'd chewed out his own heart for the pack.

He slid a file down the table. Thick. Surgical. Final.

Stella Virello's face leered back at me as if she knew. As if she hated it as much as I did.

"She ran," I said.

"And we found her," he replied, as innocent as sin. "That's what matters."

I finally caught his eye. "Why her?"

He blinked. Slowly. Unapologetically. "Bloodline. Legacy. Alliance. She's from a strong Alpha line. Their genes, our power. The future demands."

I settled back in my chair, lips twisting around the taste of it. This was no wedding. This was a breeding plan. Cold wolf intuition. No heart, no passion, just engineered bloodlines.

"This isn't the Dark Ages," I muttered.

"No," he said. "Worse. The Dark Ages ended. This never does."

He stood up. Done. As always. Volmores never beg. They command.

But before he went out, he hammered home one final nail.

"Fated mates are a myth, Dante. Real wolves build empires. They don't wait for stars to align."

And he was gone.

I sat there by myself, staring at her photo. Stella. A girl I was supposed to bind myself to in front of a pack of wolves who wore perfume and pearls but would tear your throat out if you blinked the wrong way.

This wasn't a union.

It was a leash.

And I was already gagging on it.

---

The clock on the wall ticks louder than my thoughts. I can hear every second crawl by, feel the weight of them pressing down. Forty-eight hours. Two days. The deadline's set, the deal signed, and the price has already been paid.

The chair groans beneath me as I stand, walking to the window. It should be peaceful. The way everything looks when you're too high to see the dirt. But the view doesn't settle me.

"Control," I mutter under my breath. "Control."

That's the game. Over the blood that wants to run wild. Over the wolf that wants to claw its way free and howl at the moon.

I don't want a mate. Never did. Mates are for weak wolves - wolves who can't command, wolves who think love will protect them from the darkness inside.

But it's not just about me. It's about bloodlines. The pack. The empire. The Volmore name is carved into history like a scar on this world.

Time's ticking, and it's suffocating me.

The wolf knows what I am. It knows what's at stake. A wife, a union, a life tied to another, bound by tradition. But my instincts scream - don't do this.

I squeeze my fists, digging my nails into the palms until it hurts.

"Focus," I growl, the word slipping out. "Stay human."

The air around me shivers like it's alive with that other world. The one I've buried deep. The one where the pack rules, where instincts reign.

I walk to the desk and pull open the drawer. Inside, there's a small silver vial. A reminder of what happens when I lose control. The wolf that's only been caged by will.

I put the vial back.

Stella isn't a mate. She isn't even a choice. But she's here. Now. In my world.

I feel the walls close in again. The hunger growls in my chest.

The pack is waiting for me to lead.

---

Cracking the still moment, a knock on the door.

I didn't look up. "Come in."

Enoch entered with his usual silent precision.

"She's here," he said, his tone as neutral as the rest of him.

I stood, slowly. A glance toward the window, then I turned back to face him. "And?"

"Grand Guest Quarters. She's staying there."

I nodded. The room felt still. The kind of stillness that comes just before something big changes.

I inhaled slowly. "Station the guards. No exits. I want her contained."

"Yes, Master," Enoch replied.

"Take her to the bridal shop in the morning," I say, voice smooth. "She will pick a size dress. I paused. Thought for a while, continued with a more serious tone. "Make sure she doesn't try anything... out of the ordinary."

Enoch nods.

"Make sure she doesn't spend more than two hours there," I add, the command a little sharper. "We're not dragging this out. Two hours. If she takes longer than that, you know what to do."

"She's not running again."

Enoch didn't flinch. "She won't."

I didn't have to ask how he knew. Enoch was always ahead of me.

"Good."

He bows slightly, that imperceptible gesture that tells me he's already two steps ahead.

He turns and leaves. The door closes softly.

Moment the door closed behind him, I whispered to the silence

"What if she runs again?"

And the silence answered with a question of its own:

What if she doesn't?

---

Two days have passed. The final nail has been driven. No exit, no new script. I stand before the glass, hands sunk deep in pockets, eyes tracing movement below. The estate looks like a kingdom on display - gleaming marble, iron gates, silver pennants waving as if they're proud of something.

The staff is a whirl of activity. Drivers. Florists. Suits. Strategists. Wolves in wedding dresses. All preened and primed, waiting for their own royal bloodbath in sheep's clothing as a wedding.

They don't see the chains.

I do.

And then I feel him. That presence. Heavy, contained. Quiet like death in winter.

The door clicks open.

"Father."

He strides in that familiar silence, in black all dressed out. No tie. No softness. Only the man who tempered the Volmore name into steel.

He says nothing at first.

Instead, he moves to walk beside me, the two of us standing over the window together, watching the ceremony go on as if generals over a battlefield.

"You held the line," he says finally, low-pitched. Gravel and wise. "You didn't flinch."

I remain silent. Flinching will see you gutted. That's lesson number one.

"Your brother would've made a mess of this," he continues. "Too much heart. Not enough spine."

"Good thing I've got neither," I snarl.

A moment's silence. Then, something that might be pride crosses his face. Almost.

"I don't say this often," he says, turning to face me now. "But I'm proud of you."

It hits like a strange tongue. As if something that was intended for me to never know. My jaw tightens.

"You did what wolves do," he goes on. "You chose duty. Legacy. Blood."

I glance away, eyes meeting his. "Did I have a choice?"

"You had a hundred," he says. "You just picked the right one."

There is silence between us like a wound.

You step out there today," he says to me, "you're not just a son. You're not just Alpha. You become the bond that holds this family. You are the future now."

I nod once.

And then he puts his hand on my shoulder - heavy, quick- and takes off with nothing more.

I adjust the cuff of my suit again.

It's almost time.

But nothing feels right.

- - -

The car rolled to a stop like a hearse.

Not a peep in there. Just me and the quiet and the weight of every step hanging in front. I glanced at my own face in tinted glass - hard suit, gleaming shoes, and dead eyes. The face was on.

I came out.

Sunlight shone on me like a spotlight, and all eyes turned. The estate courtyard had been transformed into an excess cathedral - imported white marble pillars for the occasion, silk flags suspended between silver rods, flowers erupting like sacrifice, and wolves in designer clothing, grinning with their teeth.

Music filled the air - something soft, orchestral, staged. Too beautiful to be real. Too practiced to possess any soul.

I pushed through the crowd, nodding, shaking hands, smiling at the surface but not at my core. They did not desire Dante. They desired the Volmore heir, the perfect Alpha in a suit.

And then I saw them.

The Virello family. Her pack.

They stood there, admiring velvet and vanity. Her father wore an arrogant smile as if sewn on his face. Her mother held a silver purse heavier than her heart. One of them looked at me and discreetly nodded.

A deal was made. A daughter. exchanged cows in a marketplace. A legacy purchased with wombs and promises.

I moved on.

The altar lay before me, draped in white lilies and golden braid. The officiant remained immobile, hands together, waiting for the pomp to begin. Every seat was filled by the powerful, the feared, the beautiful and brutal. Packs from across the continent - all assembled to witness the Volmore crown push a little deeper into my head.

I stood at the altar, spine straight, breathing calm, the wolf within me coiled like a spring. Not moving. Not fighting. Just waiting.

The music shifted.

There was a hush of silence over the throng.

This was it.

The moment when the beast within recognized that it had been confined forever.

The bride was arriving.

The hall had never stood so quiet. Not even with a death sentence.

All stood, heads turning toward the large cathedral doors, bathed in warm white-gold light from stained glass. Music wafted through the air-an elegant, over-rehearsed choice made by the Virellos. Regal. Tasteless. Phony.

My fists were hard at my sides, hard enough to shatter a bone. I stood at the altar, jaw clenched, as the heavy doors groaned open.

And then,

She entered.

The bride.

Wrapped in white, laced from throat to ankle, veil drawn over her face like a ghost trying to betractive. Her step was practiced, lovely, the kind of step bred into a human being who had been trained to be watched.

The moment she took the first step forward, my stomach responded like electricity down a wire.

Something was not right.

The veil-precisely cut, fine stuff, but too transparent. I could see her face.

Just a little.

Just enough.

My heart did not stop.

It recoiled.

That's not her.

My breath thinned. My ears rang. Each step she took closer caused the world to tilt sideways.

She looked like Stella-but not quite. Not the same cheekbones. Not the same mouth slant. The picture in the file was still burned into my mind, burned behind my eyes. And this girl?

No.

It wasn't her.

Not even close.

I blinked, hard. Told myself it was the light, the pressure, the occasion. But then I saw them-Stella's parents. Front row Smiles slipping away... replaced by curiosity, surprise, shock?

Their eyes didn't gleam with pride. They sparkled with confusion.

My nostrils flared, catching scent, that unmistakable, unavoidable sign of what someone is about.

And what hit me wasn't Stella's perfume.

It wasn't even a wolf.

It was human.

Human.

I moved ahead without deliberation. My heart thumped once, twice, harder and harder. A growl rumbled at the back of my throat-still, held prisoner behind clenched teeth.

Who is this?

Liana's POV

I am Liana Bellarose.

More of a tongue-trilling name, truly, but it fits. I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't give it to myself in another life-one in which I wasn't concealing myself behind bridal stores and dead gowns. One in which I wasn't pretending to be someone I am not. I have spent so many years walking by mirrors, never quite seeing what looks back.

Liana Bellarose. Sounds like a woman with her life together, doesn't it? Well,

spoiler alert: I'm not.

But I do have something. One ritual that I never skip. It's not a birthday or a holiday of any kind. It's not something anyone would ever receive. Every year, every time, I'm going into the same bridal store, trying on bridesmaid dresses that aren't mine. No bridegroom, no wedding. Just me-alone.

It started when I was sixteen. Nobody knows why. Maybe it was because the dresses were like. a party. Like one day someone would have a party in my honor, even if only for me, alone.

I would go alone. Always alone. I'd walk among the crowds on city streets, the din of noise, the ubiquitous buzz of existence that filled my life, and proceed to Rosa's store. Rosa, the gentle woman who operated the store, never asked questions. She would only smile and say, "Ah, my bride has returned," as if I were the catalyst for something significant.

This day was no exception. Or leastwise it was not intended to be.

I woke up before dawn, the sun only barely peeking over the skyline. I tore on my jeans, tied my scarf around my head, and ventured out into the morning air. The cool, biting wind assaulted my flesh.

And when I stepped inside Rosa's shop, everything was. normal.

"Back again, huh?" Rosa greeted me with her trademarked smile.

"You know me," I told her with a smile.

And so I followed after her to the back of the shop, where the rows of dresses stood still, waiting for my touch. I did not want the gowns. Not at all. I was not here for the wedding illusions. I was there because for a moment, I could imagine. I could join the fantasy.

But something was. different today.

I wandered through the rows of lace and satin, my fingertips grazing over the fabric carelessly. I wasn't looking for anything, not that I was aware of. Just doing what I did always. And then I saw her.

A woman, standing among the gowns. She wasn't looking at the gowns, not like everyone else would. Her eyes were distant, wandering around the room, as if she was looking for something-or someone. There was something about her that made me stop in my tracks.

Her dark hair sparkled under the soft boutique lighting. It was. too perfect. Glossy. Edgy. Unreal. And the strangest thing? She was a dead ringer for me. Same height. Same build. Same posture. It was as if gazing at a reflection that was not mine.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

No, it wasn't possible. It couldn't be. And yet there she was, standing before me, as if the universe had played some kind of sick joke on me.

My heart beat faster as our eyes locked. She looked as surprised as I was. And then, in a moment of sheer stupidity, I said, "Hi."

She arched an eyebrow, obviously taken aback.

"Wow, I love your bag!" I said, nodding towards the designer bag she held. It caught the light, shining like something out of a magazine.

"Thanks," she replied quietly, smiling shyly. "It's a Bvlgari."

"Bvlgari?" I asked, staring at it like it was something I couldn't even afford. "Wow, that's expensive. Can I. can I touch it?"

She didn't hesitate long before she passed it to me. I grasped the bag, feeling the smooth leather between my fingertips as if it were something valuable. The strange thing was, I didn't even desire the bag-I desired her. The way she held it. The way she looked at me.

"You have good taste," I said, a smile tugging at my lips.

"Thanks," she breathed. There was something in her tone, the way she used the word. It sounded sincere. But there was something underneath, something I couldn't place.

Then, she surprised me.

"You want it?" she asked.

I blinked. "What?"

She leaned in. "We could trade the bag and shirt. Just for fun."

I stared at her, caught between suspicion and curiosity. Who offers a Bvlgari bag for a worn Target tee?

But something about her smile-like a dare and a secret combined-made me say yes.

I blinked. Was she joking?

"Seriously?" I barely whispered. "You're. you're willing to give it to me?"

"Yeah," she nodded, a sly smile spreading on her lips. I felt my stomach jump, surprise and excitement entwined. "You'd really do that?"

"Yeah," she said again, the smile on her face wide, but her eyes. her eyes looked different.

Thanks, I told her, then yanked her into a brief hug, relieved by this odd feeling. This moment, this encounter, felt too. unreal. But I knew I'd be sorry if I didn't grab that shirt.

We swapped clothes in the dressing room. Her shirt clung to me like it belonged. Her scent stayed on my skin, subtle and sharp. Like perfume made for enternity.

"Thanks," she said, again and again.

"No-thank you," I replied, staring at my reflection. I didn't look like me. I looked like her. Today was that fortunate day after all.

I was compelled to turn around, to look at her again, and she was nowhere to be seen.

I shook my head, having a strange empty sensation take up residence in my chest. Where had she vanished to?

Before I could even think about anything else, however, she opened the doors of the boutique and three businessmen entered. Their presence hit me like a tsunami-brutal, cold, scripted.

One of them spotted me almost immediately. "There she is," he said, his voice low and deliberate.

I froze.

I had to say something. To insist on knowing what was going on. But they were already moving towards me, each step calculated, too rapid for comfort.

"Madam, it's time," one of them said.

"Time for what?" I stammered, the fear crawling up my spine.

They did not answer, simply continued to move towards me. The tallest of them raised his hand in a signal to the others, and they closed in on either side of me. One of them reached back and grabbed me, and before I had any idea what was happening, I was being swept off the ground.

"Let me down!" I screamed, my chest racing.

"No time for that," the second man answered, his voice firm. "We're taking you now."

I twisted and struggled in his arms, trying to break away. "I'm not her!" I cried out. "You've made a mistake! You've got the wrong girl!"

But they did not leave me alone. I did not even get to see their faces when the door opened. There was a black car parked outside. No one spoke.

"Wait!" I yelled. "The girl! The one who gave me this shirt. She. she was like me!

-

The car stopped, but I didn't move. I couldn't. The ground beneath me felt as though it might suddenly open and swallowed me up whole. My hands were clenched around the fabric of my jeans, knuckles aching white from how tightly I was holding on to it, as though the car itself would lurch back into motion again and take me somewhere anywhere but here.

I stared at the mansion before me.

A beast. That's the only word to use. A gigantic, immaculate monolith that seemed to defy every ounce of common sense in the cosmos. Marble pillars gleamed as if ripped straight from a museum exhibit-gold edging on each corner as if someone had pillaged the whole treasure of an abandoned kingdom.

My heart thudded in my ears as the door creaked open, and suddenly the men in suits were there once more. They moved with barely a sound, shadow-like. One of them thrust out his hand, as if I were a long-lost friend, and he was welcoming me home, rather than being some kid off the street they'd picked up.

"Madam, please," the first one said, his voice too respectful, too cautious. "Welcome home."

My mind stuttered to a halt. Welcome home? What was the matter? Why did he say that for? There was no possible way that I fit here. This was a place for people who had yachts, who drank champagne with diamonds in it. People who. were not me.

But I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around it. I had my mouth open, but words became lodged somewhere in my throat. I wasn't sure if it was fear or the insidious feeling that this whole thing just didn't feel. right.

Stepping out of the car on shaky legs, the floor cold under me. I could almost hear the whine of my sneakers, complaining against the slippery floor beneath them.

"Is everything all right, Madam?" The voice was behind me. It was the same man who had opened the door, the same man who spoke to me, in that detached coolness, as 'Madam'. "You appear. rather lost."

Lost? No joke.

But before I could answer, more men appeared. They came out of the darkness, as if they had been waiting for me all along. There was something so smooth, so practiced about the way they moved. Like they had been schooled to do this for this precise moment. For me.

"Come in, please" said one of them, his tone smooth but underlain with something I couldn't quite put my finger on-haste, maybe. I was being royally treated like some queen who'd just returned from a long, long absence, and it was so ridiculous that I wished to laugh.

I should have giggled. Or shrieked. Something. But they just went, my legs, step by step, across the meticulously trimmed garden and up the wide, sweeping stairs to the front doors.

Inside was only worse.

The moment I stepped inside, it was like entering a world unto itself. The atmosphere shifted-cooler, fresher, as if sucked from some lofty, unconquered mountain peak. I gazed about at the gigantic chandelier overhead, how it sparkled like stars were trapped within it. Too big, too elegant, too much for any human, much less one like me.

Everything-everything-was perfect. As if gods had designed it.

I stood stuck in the doorway, the weight of the place pushing me down. This. this was not for me. This was not my life. How had I gone from slipping into a dress for a few stolen moments of fantasy to this?

My heart thumping in my chest. I glared back at the men who had brought me here, their masks of expressionless faces, their actions as smooth and calculated as a well-oiled machine.

"Why am I here?" I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. "What. what is going on here? Who are you people? And why are you all keeping calling me 'Madam'?" My eyes darted between them, hunting for some spark of recognition, some clue that it was all a terrible prank. "This is a mistake, isn't it?"

Liana's POV

Nobody answered.

They simply smiled, like they'd heard it all already. Like they already knew something about me.

"Come, Madam," the tallest one instructed, gesturing for me to follow. "For now you will take some rest."

I followed him. Not because I believed him. Trust had packed its bags and departed hours earlier. I followed because the corridor stretched out before me like a condemnation, and I had nowhere else to turn.

He stopped in front of a door that was too high, too lavish, as if it would engulf lesser people whole. Wood that glimmered like a mirror. Gold filigree that talked of nobility and other people's money.

He opened it in a ceremony. "Please go to your room, Madam."

My room?

He went away without looking over his shoulder, and the door clicked behind me with a kind of finality that made the walls vibrate.

I went in.

The air was perfumed with money and secrets. Fresh, crisp, and icy. The carpet swallowed my footfalls as if I had no right to leave a mark. The ceiling was so high that it looked as though the sky had been trapped within it. I turned around, bewildered, like a lost child in a museum.

And then I saw it.

The photograph.

Standing on the nightstand as though she were a guilt-ridden witness. Her. The boutique woman. The one I'd swapped clothes with in the fitting room-her face now defined in silver, beaming like she'd won.

What the devil?

My skin crawled. My mind raced. That smile. Soft, smug, carved. She knew. She had known this would occur.

I backed away, only to collide with a mirrored closet door. I shoved it open-and found a shrine.

Couture gowns. Designer purses displayed like masterpieces. Shoes I could never buy even if I worked five lifetimes. All spread out like they belonged to someone who was idolized. Someone inaccessible.

And yet, they thought that someone was me.

A bitter, idiotic laugh slipped from my lips.

I collapsed onto the bed-not because I was relaxing, but because my knees buckled. The photograph glared at me like a ghost in the room. I covered my face with my hands. Tried to scream. It was a wheeze.

Then there was the knocking.

The door creaked open against my will.

She came in.

An elderly woman. Ironed out. Bun on her head. The sort of woman who dared you to argue.

"There you are, dear," she burst out like I'd been away at war and had finally returned home. "You're back. Good. So much to prepare." Her bird-like hands fluttered about straightening imaginary folds from her apron.

"Prepare for what?" I snapped, my voice a rusty growl.

She blinked at me, stunned, as if I'd asked her what the sun was.

"Your wedding, sweetie. You need to be your best for the ceremony."

I gaped. My brain careened.

"What wedding? I'm not-"

She stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "I know, I know, nerves are terrible. But you have to be brave. You have to do this... for your family."

Those words. That sentence. That line. It dropped with the weight of a guillotine.

For your family.

My blood turned cold. My mind broke apart.

For your family.

Was it what this was? A transaction? A whiskey- and guilt-conceived bargain in the closed rooms of his mind? My father always used to talk in a drowning-to-debt-island sort of manner. A bad year. A few mistakes. There were too many zeros on the wrong side. Did he get rid of me to save himself?

Did he sell me?

---

Two Days Later

It's been Two days already

Two days ago I was shoved into this mansion dressed like a palace and festering like a prison. Two days of marble silence and velvet lies. I was treated like a queen and watched like a threat. Isolated in a room where the gold molding mocked me and the chandeliers looked like eyes.

I did it all. Every window. Every door. I screamed. I begged. I pounded on the door until my knuckles were bruised and my voice crumbled into dust. And yet, no one came-except her.

The old woman.

She'd appear like a nursery rhyme on legs, with trays of untouched food and that pinpoint grandmotherly smile as if she pitied me for not being able to enjoy the poison.

She called me Stella. Stella, Stella, Stella. Like if she said it enough times, I'd forget I wasn't.

I complained about everything. The meals. The dresses she laid out for me. The plush dresses with pearl buttons and silk collars. Each one a funeral suit for a funeral I'd never agreed to go to.

And now... wedding day.

They did not knock. They burst in.

The door slammed open as if they had finally abandoned the pretense that I had a voice.

They swarmed down. Assistants brandishing clipboards. Headset women. Stylists with faces set like surgeons getting ready to cut. They revolved around me without so much as a by-your-leave, without an instant's pause, as if I was a mannequin who had ceased to function.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I insisted, digging my heels in.

She smiled, her teeth too perfectly white. "It's time to get ready, Miss. It's your wedding day."

The words hit me like a slap in the face. My heart didn't just sink-it fell out of my chest.

"No. No, no, no-"

But they weren't listening to me. They were already pulling out the dress.

A coffin of glass rolled in, gleaming like a fairy tale casket. Inside, a gown shone as if made from moonlight and folklores. Lace, gold thread so fine, a train like a curtain between me and my fate. It looked too expensive to breathe upon. As if it should be roped off in a museum.

A woman's voice whispered behind me, "It's all going to be fine, dear."

I spun around. It was her. The old woman. My captor with a tea cart.

Her eyes glistened like she thought this was beautiful. Like she was proud.

"You'll look perfect today," she said. "You have to do this. For your family."

There it was again. That phrase. That trigger.

For your family.

It churned my stomach. I remembered the way she spoke it on the first night. I remembered her silence when I asked whom I was going to marry and she gave me nothing.

And I knew now why.

Because maybe the truth was too horrific to speak.

Maybe my father had shaken some stranger's hand in the darkness and signed off on my life.

A transaction. Something that seemed survival to him and betrayal to me.

I was sick. Not just in body. In soul. In the recesses of me that still believed my parents loved me.

But I let them dress me. I let them pull me into the gown, cinch buttons along my back like stitching me into a lie.

Because I needed answers.

Because I needed to know who they'd sold me to.

Because if I had to get down on that aisle to get to the truth-then I'd do it.

2hours later

I looked at myself in the mirror, staring at the woman I barely recognized. The dress was gorgeous-better than anything I'd ever imagined. Silk and lace mingled together like a dream, draping itself around me like a mist. It was not designed for someone like me. It was designed for another-someone who was supposed to be here, in this world of wealth and beauty. Someone selected for this. Not me.

Not Liana Bellarose.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. The dress was not making me bride-like. It was making me doll-like, mannequin-like, all dressed up in something too fine to be touched.

When I turned to leave the room, the weight of the gown lay on me even more strongly. It was not the weight of the material; it was the reality of all that I had become in two days' time. A pawn. A stranger in a life not my own.

When I stepped out, the pandemonium hit me like a wave. Photographers, cameras clicking in all directions. Reporters yelling questions, calling my name as if I was obliged to respond.

"Mrs. Volmore! Mrs. Volmore, how do you feel on your wedding day?"

I flinched at the name, the sound of it clashing with every part of my reality. Mrs. Volmore. That was not my name. That was not me. I wasn't her.

But it appeared that the world thought I was.

The words were a cold hand against my throat, and the cameras, the audience-they all melted into one as I stepped further out into the light, being forced to stride as if this was my world. My destiny. My choice.

They continued, snapping, shouting. The smiles were too wide, too rehearsed. The questions, too personal. "Mrs. Volmore, what do you think of your husband-to-be?" A reporter stood in my path, a microphone thrust up to my face. I stood frozen, my mouth opening and closing in stunned horror.

I had no answers. Answers for them. Answers for me.

My legs kept moving, walking, because I wasn't brave enough to stop. I couldn't.

"Mrs. Volmore, do you know your fiancé well?" another voice yelled behind me.

I flinched again, trying to keep the nausea that was rising in my stomach under control. I didn't know him. I didn't know anything about him.

But they all thought I did.

They were stopped by the guards around me.

As I approached the car. To the next stage of this nightmare, I asked myself if I'd survive the day, if I'd get to the end of the aisle and insist on an answer. Who was I actually marrying? Why had they brought me here?

-

The grand doors swung open like jaws.

Golden arches. White roses climbing crystal pillars. A cathedral dome so high that it looked like God himself would be watching this mess with arms folded, wondering who had let humans play god.

Everyone stood.

Heads turned.

Cameras clicked.

And me?

I was at the end of the aisle, wrapped in silk and stillness, surrounded by a wedding dress that clung to me like a falsehood. Every stitch cried out some other person's name.

I stepped.

The veil stung like shame on my skin. My heels were flavored with chains. I didn't walk. I floated. Driven by invisible strings I couldn't cut.

"Here comes the bride," someone bellowed.

The bride. The bride. But whose?

People smiled. Cried. Clutched their pearls as if this were the great love story of the century.

They didn't see the girl who'd screamed her throat raw behind locked doors. Who'd begged. Who'd scraped her nails down marble walls and implored something-anything-to break the fantasy.

And now, she was walking down the aisle like she was born to do it.

My own breath caught in my throat. Not because I was scarednot because I was angry. Because I was betrayed.

Where were my parents?

Why hadn't they picked me up?

Then I saw him.

The groom.

He stood like stone statue of enigma, inscrutable face, folded hands in front of him.

Nobody had uttered a word as to who precisely this man was.

?