I wasn't supposed to be the bride.
The lace on the sleeves itched like guilt, and the bodice fit too tight—probably because it wasn't mine. This dress was made for someone taller, bolder. Someone who didn't shake while looking in the mirror.
Someone like my sister.
I stood still, staring at my reflection as the final touches were pinned into place. My mother hovered behind me, her mouth tight, her eyes blank like this wasn't insane—like I wasn't about to marry the man meant for someone else.
"I'll never forgive you for this," I whispered, but I wasn't sure who I meant. Myself? Her?
"Keep your voice down," she snapped, tugging the veil over my face. "Do you want to ruin what's left of this family?"
My hands clenched into fists. "She didn't even leave a note, Mom. Amara's just… gone. How do you expect me to?"
"You'll walk down that aisle and save this family from scandal. That's what you'll do."My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. It had only been two days since Amara vanished her phone off, her room untouched. There was no message, no warning, nothing. Just a text to my mother that said, "Don't look for me."
Damian Cole hadn't canceled the wedding.
Instead, he'd sent a car.
And I... stupid, spineless, hopelessly loyal got in.
I still remember the way the driver didn't even look surprised. As if this kind of thing happened all the time in Damian Cole's world. Maybe it did.
Now here I was, standing in my sister's gown, waiting to marry her fiancé.
The music started.
I felt my stomach twist as the double doors opened, and every eye turned to me. I could barely breathe.
Damian stood at the altar in a black tux, looking every bit as composed as a man attending a business meeting, not his own wedding. He didn't flinch when he saw me. Not even a blink.
Did he know?
Was he pretending?
My steps were slow and unsure as I walked down the aisle, hands trembling around the bouquet. The world blurred, but his eyes never moved. Cold. Calculating. Empty.
And maybe just a little too still.
By the time I reached him, my knees were shaking. The priest said something, and I nodded without listening. My voice cracked on the vows.
Then it was his turn.
"I do," he said simply, as if it meant nothing.
And maybe to him, it didn't.
When he slid the ring on my finger, his touch was like ice. Controlled. Distant. There was no warmth, no glance, no whisper of reassurance. Just pressure on my hand, and then silence.
"You may now kiss the bride," the priest announced.
My breath caught.
Damian leaned in—slow, mechanical—and placed the briefest kiss on my cheek. Not lips. Not even close.
Just a cold, formal stamp. Like he was signing a contract.
I didn't realize I was crying until the veil started to stick to my face.
Back in the car after the ceremony, he sat beside me, silent, staring out the window like all of this was beneath him.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"You know I'm not Amara, right?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He finally turned to look at me. His eyes were unreadable, too calm.
"I know," he said.
My heart dropped. "Then why?"
He didn't answer. Just turned back to the window, folding his hands in his lap like we were strangers forced to share the same ride home.
And then, with no emotion at all, he said the one thing that scared me more than anything else.
"Let's just get through this."
I didn't respond. There was nothing left to say.
The silence between us was thick—uncomfortable, but familiar in some strange way. Maybe this is what a loveless marriage feels like from the very beginning. Maybe that's all it was ever meant to be.
When the car pulled up to the Cole estate—no, our estate now—I stepped out slowly, unsure if my legs would even hold me. The house loomed over me like a shadow: tall, cold, and perfect. Just like Damian.
"Your room is upstairs. First door on the left," he said as he passed me, not even glancing my way. He walked through the front doors like he hadn't just married a stranger. Like I wasn't standing there, still clutching a bouquet with wilted edges and a breaking heart.
I didn't expect warmth or affection. But I hadn't expected to feel *this* invisible either.
The housekeeper, a woman in her late fifties with soft gray hair and kind eyes, gave me a quick smile as I entered. "Welcome, Mrs. Cole," she said gently.
I flinched at the name. "Zara," I corrected. "Please… just Zara."
She nodded, but I could tell she was watching me the way people watch something about to fall apart.
In the room—Amara's room, or maybe mine now—I finally let myself fall onto the edge of the bed. The dress felt heavier by the second, like it knew it didn't belong to me.
I peeled it off slowly and stepped into the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red, my lips trembling, my hair falling from the pins that barely held it up. I looked like someone who had just survived a car crash.
In a way, maybe I had.
I found paper and a pen in one of the drawers. There was too much in my head to keep it all locked inside, and talking to anyone—especially Damian—felt impossible.
So I wrote.
Dear Amara,
I wore your dress. I said your vows. I kissed your fiancé—on the cheek, don't worry.
Everyone pretended like it was fine. Like this is normal. Like it's not completely insane that you disappeared and I took your place.
Where are you? Why did you leave me here?
I didn't sign it. I just folded it, tucked it under the pillow, and crawled under the covers without brushing my hair or removing my makeup.
Maybe tomorrow I'd wake up and this would all be over.
Maybe I'd find another note from her. One that said it was all just a bad joke.
But when I closed my eyes, I didn't dream of Amara.
I dreamed of Damian..standing at the altar with eyes that didn't blink, lips that didn't smile, and a voice that kept echoing in my head.
"Let's just get through this."
The next morning, I woke up to silence.
No messages. No footsteps. No breakfast tray, no check-ins, no fake smiles from my mother. Just the sound of birds outside a window I didn't recognize, in a house that didn't feel like mine.
For a few seconds, I forgot where I was.
Then I turned my head and saw the folded wedding dress draped over a chair, and it all came rushing back.
Amara was gone. Damian was my husband. And I was now living in a mansion with a man who barely looked at me.
I showered, changed into a simple dress I found in the wardrobe—Amara's, of course—and made my way downstairs. The house was massive, all glass and marble and carefully placed silence. It felt like walking through a museum of someone else's life.
I found Damian in the study. He was seated behind a desk, reading through documents like it was just another Monday. No ring on his finger. No trace of yesterday in his expression.
He looked up once and gave a nod, the kind you give a colleague in an elevator.
"Good morning," I said, forcing some steadiness into my voice.
"Morning," he replied, then went right back to reading.
I waited, half-expecting something more. A question. An apology. A plan.
But all he said was, "There's a press release going out this afternoon. Our story is that Amara left because of a health emergency, and you filled in to honor the arrangement. The media won't know anything else unless we tell them."
I blinked. "That's the story?"
He didn't look up. "It's the safest one."
"She's not dead, Damian. She didn't die."
"No," he agreed, finally meeting my eyes. "But she's gone. And unless you want the whole city digging into your family's affairs, we give them something to believe and we move on."
"Move on?" My voice cracked. "We're talking about my sister. Your fiancée."
"Correction," he said quietly. "*Was* my fiancée."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "You're very calm for someone whose bride ran away two days ago."
His jaw tightened, just slightly. "I don't see the use in panicking. She made her choice."
"Did she?" I asked, softer now. "Or was she pushed into it, just like I was?"
He stared at me, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in his expression. Not anger. Not sadness. Something else. Something closer to guilt.
"You agreed to this marriage," he said.
"No," I replied. "I agreed to protect my family. I didn't agree to becoming your problem."
He stood then, smooth and deliberate. The calm businessman mask was back in full.
"You're not a problem, Zara. You're a solution."
Those words hit harder than they should've.
A solution.
Not a wife. Not a person. Just a convenient answer to an inconvenient scandal.
I turned without another word and walked out of the study, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Back in the bedroom, I tore a new page from the notepad and began to write again.
Dear Amara,
He's colder than you ever told me. Or maybe you just didn't see it. Maybe you were too busy pretending it was going to be fine.
I thought you ran. But now I'm not sure. You don't just vanish without reason. Not you. Not unless something scared you.
Wherever you are… please come back. Or tell me where to start looking.
This time, I folded the letter and hid it deep inside one of the drawers beneath her perfume bottles. My perfume bottles, now. But they still smelled like her.
Everything here still smelled like her.
And somehow, I had to learn how to breathe in it.