The chapel smelled faintly of roses and candle wax, but Linda Martin could not breathe in its wonderful smell , the only smell she can smell was the smell of some invisible ropes now trying to bound her tightly.
She walked down the aisle like a beautiful porcelain doll — dressed in white silk, veiled in lace, every movement practiced, graceful, perfect. Perfect to everyone else. But inside, she was hollow. She was pretending for her family.
Her lips carried no smile.
But then her father cleared his throat undeniably demanding a smile.
She forced a smile on her lips , it slightly twitched upwards , the smile screamed unreal but none of them cared.
Across the aisle stood Daniel Arslan, the man who was now her groom, her chain, her fate.. her husband.
His face was carved in stone, sharp features betraying nothing. No happiness. No nerves. No flicker of affection he didn't even bother to play pretending to be role.
His face betrayed nothing . Just stoic. Absolute stoic.
His dark eyes met hers for only a heartbeat before flicking away, cold, as though this was not a wedding but a negotiation.
They stood together at the altar, side by side physically but mentally miles apart.
Her parents sat in the front row, pride swelling on their faces. To them, this was triumph. Their daughter, bound to the most powerful man in the village. To Linda, it was betrayal — she was being sold, dressed up as honor.
She hated, she hated to be possession. She hated to be trophy. She hated to be controlled.
The priest's voice rose, sacred words echoing in the vaulted hall. Linda repeated them as though reading from a script, her voice even, her expression blank.
Daniel did the same, his tone steady, deep, authoritative — but devoid of emotion. Two actors reciting lines in a play neither wanted to perform.
The guests leaned forward, waiting for the climax: the kiss.
It came — mechanical, cold, brief. His lips touched hers without tenderness, without warmth.
It was less a kiss and more a stamp on a contract, sealing what had already been decided long before either of them had a choice.
Applause erupted, filling the chapel with hollow thunder. To Linda, it sounded like drums at a funeral — her funeral , the funeral for her freedom , her rebel nature.
She stood frozen, her hand lying limp in his. Daniel's grip was firm, but not possessive in a passionate way. It was the grip of a man holding a pen, a seal, a possession.
Is this all I am to him? she wondered. An ornament, a contract signed with blood and vows?
The crowd cheered. Her parents' faces glowed with satisfaction. The matrons whispered about her beauty. The men congratulated Daniel for winning such a bride. But Linda felt only the weight of chains tightening around her wrists.
The ceremony ended. Daniel offered his arm — not with tenderness, but with duty — and led her down the aisle. His steps were confident, commanding, while hers were measured, heavy. He didn't look at her once. She might as well have been invisible.
Outside, the car waited — a handsome black car , yes handsome . The car looked really good enough to be owned by an powerful man. It was shining beneath the setting sun. To the guests, it looked like a royal carriage. To Linda, it looked like a prison wagon.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, and silence swallowed them whole. The faint hum of the engine was the only sound as the car glided forward.
Linda pressed her fingers against the edge of her gown, staring out the window. Villagers waved at them, smiling, cheering, throwing petals in their path as though this were a fairytale.
Fairytales ended with love. Hers began with chains.
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was sharp, suffocating. Linda could hear her own heartbeat, quick and uneven, in the stillness.
Finally, she broke it.
"You didn't even look at me," she said softly, her eyes still on the window.
Daniel's gaze flicked toward her, but his voice was calm, unreadable. "I didn't need to. You were there."
The words struck her like ice. Her throat tightened.
Her thoughts : So that's what I am to him. An object. A fixture. Something that simply exists.
"I see," she whispered, her fingers tightening on the silk of her gown. "So this is what marriage means to you. Duty. Display. A… transaction."
Daniel's jaw clenched, his knuckles tightening against his knee. "Marriage," he said slowly, "is survival. Appearances. Power. Love—" his tone was sharp, final, "—is a luxury people like us don't afford."
With the beat silence he spoke again," I thought you know this already"
Her head snapped toward him, fire flashing in her eyes. "And what am I in that power, Daniel? Another tool in your collection? Another pretty ornament on your shelf?"
For the first time, something shifted in his expression — a shadow, a flicker of something unspoken. But just as quickly, the mask returned.
"Women are not supposed to raise their Tone. Not even slightest. Also no questions should be asked by an wife to husband."
"You'll learn," he said, his voice quiet but laced with authority. "In time."
The words stung. But instead of breaking, Linda's fire only flared brighter. She turned back to the window, her chin lifted. "Maybe you'll learn too," she muttered.
The silence after was heavier than before.
The car carried them toward Daniel's mansion, its towering silhouette rising against the dusk like a fortress of wealth and secrets. The iron gates opened, and the world outside — the cheers, the petals, the smiles — fell away.
Inside, Linda's chest ached with both fear and defiance. She had been handed into the hands of a man who believed women were delicate ornaments, meant to stand silently at his side.
But Linda Martin had never been silent.
And though Daniel might hold the chains, she carried fire in her chest.
Two paths, bound together. Flint and steel.
And sparks were inevitable.
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PLEASE SUPPORT,
WITH DETERMINATION,
LINDA MARTIN.
WITH DOMINATION,
DANIEL ARSLAN.