The morning of the wedding came like a slow, suffocating tide. I sat motionless in the ornate chair of the bridal suite, staring at the stranger in the gilded mirror. My skin looked almost translucent against the white of the dress, the lace and pearls gleaming like cruel ornaments of mockery. I was supposed to look radiant, pure, reborn. Instead, I looked hollow—like a ghost forced into silk.
The makeup artist worked in silence, her hands moving with mechanical precision. She didn't look at me, didn't speak. Maybe she couldn't bear to. Maybe she'd seen too many brides like me—women dressed up for someone else's victory.
My hands lay limp in my lap, trembling slightly despite my best effort to stay still. My hair had been curled and pinned, jeweled clips glinting like shards of light. They called it "a symbol of my new beginning." I wanted to laugh at that. Today wasn't a beginning. It was an ending—the quiet death of everything I'd ever been.
The door creaked open behind me, and my heart lurched painfully. My mother stepped inside, moving with that same measured grace she always carried. Her expression was calm, composed, almost gentle—but not enough. Not warm. Not the kind of comfort I needed.
"You look beautiful," she said softly. The words should have soothed me, but they landed empty. She adjusted a stray curl near my temple, her fingers brushing my cheek.
My lips quivered. I couldn't keep it in anymore. My hands lifted shakily as I signed, Please, Mom. Help me. Don't let this happen. Please.
For the briefest moment, I saw her mask crack. Her eyes glistened, and her hand hovered as if she might reach for me—but then she straightened, forcing her shoulders back. Her gaze hardened.
"Be strong, Evelyn," she said quietly. Her tone wasn't comforting—it was resigned. "There's nothing I can do. You must accept this."
I shook my head violently, my hands flying again in desperation, but she caught them mid-motion, holding them still between hers. "Don't make this harder than it already is," she whispered. "This is your duty. You'll survive. You always do."
Her words sank like stones in my chest. She released my hands and stepped back, her eyes darting away from mine. With one last glance—a fleeting, sorrowful thing—she turned and left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
I stared at my reflection, my tears blurring the image until the figure in the mirror became nothing but a smear of white and trembling light. I didn't recognize her—the girl in the gown, painted and silent. She wasn't a bride. She was a sacrifice.
The ceremony was held in the grand hall of the Ironclaw mansion. The moment I stepped inside, the air felt too thick to breathe. The hall was packed—rows of wolves and alphas from neighboring packs, their eyes gleaming with curiosity, greed, amusement. They'd all come to see Alpha Garrick's latest "acquisition."
My father arrived to escort me down the aisle. His grip on my arm was vice-like, fingers digging painfully into my skin. He leaned close, his breath hot and bitter as he hissed, "You will behave. Don't embarrass me."
I couldn't nod. I couldn't do anything but breathe shallowly as he pulled me toward the double doors. My knees wobbled beneath the heavy gown, my chest so tight I thought I might faint before even reaching the altar.
The doors opened with a groan, and the sound of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Every head turned. Every eye found me.
I kept my gaze low, fixed on the marble floor, counting each step. One. Two. Three. My arm burned under my father's grip, but I didn't fight him. I couldn't. The weight of all those stares pressed down on me like chains.
The hall blurred at the edges. I caught flashes of gold chandeliers, the shimmer of crystal, the smell of candle wax and roses—but none of it felt real. All I could hear was the low hum of whispers and the echo of my father's warning.
I didn't dare look up at Garrick. I could feel him waiting—his presence heavy at the far end of the aisle, his smug satisfaction filling the air like poison.
When we reached the altar, my father stopped abruptly. His grip tightened once more before he turned me toward Garrick. "Don't forget your place," he muttered, his tone cold as steel.
Then he let go.
My body felt weightless, unmoored. I stood there, facing the man who would own me, his cruel smile stretched wide. He extended a hand toward me, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
My hand began to lift on instinct—trembling, reluctant—when the world shattered.
A deafening gunshot split the silence