The bridal suite smelled of roses, hairspray, and panic.
Alira stood frozen in the center of the room while three stylists buzzed around her like frantic bees. Her mother paced near the door, barking instructions under her breath, and the wedding coordinator kept wiping sweat from her forehead despite the heavy air-conditioning.
The wedding wasn't until tomorrow.
But Damon Vargaz was arriving today, hours earlier than expected.
And he had demanded to "see the bride."
Alira's heart slammed against her ribcage with every breath.
"Hold still," one stylist whispered, tugging her hair into Kaira's signature loose waves.
"I—I'm trying," Alira stammered, but her voice trembled uncontrollably.
Her hands were cold, almost numb. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—a girl who looked like her, but wrong. Her skin was too pale, her eyes too wide with fear. The shimmering bridal gown waiting behind her felt like a noose disguised in silk.
The dress wasn't hers. It would never be hers.
But it was the only thing that stood between her family and ruin.
"Bring the gown," her mother ordered sharply.
The stylists nodded and lifted the wedding dress from its mannequin. The pearls glimmered like drops of frozen moonlight, the veil trailing behind it like spilled clouds.
Alira swallowed hard.
That dress had been made for Kaira—perfect, graceful Kaira. Not for the quiet shadow-sister now trembling in her place.
"I can't—" Alira's voice cracked. "Mom, maybe we should just tell Damon the truth—"
Her mother spun toward her, panic flaring in her eyes. "No. Not now. Not when he's already on his way."
"But he'll know," Alira whispered. "He'll look at me once and know I'm not her."
Her mother grabbed both her shoulders firmly. "Listen to me. Damon Vargaz has only met Kaira twice. Both times were formal meetings. Both times she wore a veil. And both times she barely spoke. If you stay quiet and follow instructions, he will never know."
Alira bit her lip. "But—"
"You're saving us," her mother said, her voice trembling. "If we tell him now, before the wedding, he will consider it deliberate deception. He will slaughter us before we have the chance to explain."
Alira closed her eyes, breathing shakily.
She understood. She hated that she understood, but she did.
"Alright," she whispered.
Her mother kissed her forehead, something she hadn't done since Alira was a child. "Good girl."
The stylists lifted the dress.
And Alira's world shrank to the cold touch of silk sliding over her skin.
---
They guided her step by step, careful not to damage the delicate beading. The gown fit tightly at the bodice—too tightly. Alira was slimmer and shorter than Kaira; she could feel the bones of the corset digging into her ribs. The stylists tugged and adjusted, pinched and pinned, murmuring to each other as they worked to make the dress look intentional.
Alira's breath grew shallow.
"I—I can't breathe," she whispered.
"You're fine, dear," one stylist said, tightening the corset even more.
Her lungs strained. She clutched the edge of a nearby table.
Her mother shot the stylists a sharp glare. "She needs to look perfect. Damon will notice any flaw."
Another pin pulled. The bodice cinched. The skirt settled heavily around her legs, layers upon layers of embroidered tulle.
Alira felt buried alive.
"Almost done," the stylist said.
She couldn't answer. Her throat felt sealed shut.
Her mother tilted her chin up. "Remember," she whispered, "you are Kaira today. So act like her."
Alira swallowed. "How?"
"Graceful. Polished. Silent." Her mother smoothed her cheek with trembling fingers. "And keep your eyes lowered. Damon's gaze is… intense."
Intense was too soft a word for the man everyone feared. A man who built an empire in silence. A man whose enemies vanished into the shadows he owned.
A man who would kill for betrayal.
A man Alira was about to marry.
A man she would bow to under false identity.
Her stomach twisted painfully.
The stylists placed the veil over her head.
The fine lace fluttered, brushing her cheeks. Everything in front of her blurred into soft white mist.
And suddenly Alira wasn't seeing the room anymore.
She was seeing a coffin lined with silk. She was seeing herself lying inside it.
Her breath hitched.
Her mother noticed immediately. "Are you alright?"
"No," Alira whispered. "I'm going to faint."
Her mother's face softened, guilt flickering through her gaze—but only for a moment. "You have to stay strong. Just until Damon leaves. Just until tomorrow."
Just until the truth devours me, Alira thought.
---
A knock shattered the room's fragile quiet.
Three hard, heavy knocks.
Everyone froze.
The wedding coordinator's eyes widened. "That's one of Damon's men."
Her mother inhaled sharply. "Let him in."
The door opened.
A tall man in a black suit filled the doorway. Broad shoulders. Cold eyes. No expression. He scanned the room once before speaking.
"Mr. Vargaz has arrived."
Alira's heart plummeted.
Her mother stepped forward quickly. "We need a few minutes—"
"He wishes to see the bride now," the guard said flatly.
A tremor ran through Alira's body.
"Now?" her mother echoed.
The man didn't blink. "Now."
Alira's breathing faltered. Her palms grew slippery with sweat. The room seemed to tilt.
Another stylist whispered, "We're not done—"
"It is not a request," the guard said.
Her mother turned to Alira, gripping her shoulders. Her voice was a trembling whisper. "You can do this."
No, I can't.
"You must."
I don't want to die.
"For us."
For them.
Always for them.
Alira straightened, even though every bone in her body begged her to run. Her legs felt weak under the weight of the gown. Her skin prickled with dread.
"She's ready," her mother said.
Alira wasn't.
But the guard stepped aside, gesturing wordlessly for her to follow.
The veil shadowed her face, every breath fogging the delicate lace. Her hands clutched the skirt as she tried to walk without stumbling.
Her mother whispered behind her, "Eyes down. Don't speak unless spoken to. Remember—you are Kaira."
Alira nodded numbly.
The guard led her down the corridor. Her pulse thudded so loudly it felt like a drum echoing through her chest.
Voices murmured in the grand hall downstairs. Heavy footsteps. The low hum of dangerous men assembling.
And then—
She heard him.
A voice like velvet wrapped around steel. Deep. Calm. Lethally controlled.
"Where is she?" Damon Vargaz asked.
Alira froze at the top of the staircase. Her knees threatened to give way.
The guard nodded toward her. "Here."
Alira took one shaky step downward.
Then another.
Her vision blurred behind the veil.
And when she reached the bottom, she lifted her gaze just enough to see him.
Damon Vargaz stood there in a black suit, tall and impossibly composed, dark eyes fixed on her like a predator assessing prey.
He didn't smile.
He didn't blink.
He simply stared at her, silent and sharp, as if peeling back her skin to see what was underneath.
Alira's breath hitched.
He took one step closer.
Then another.
Until he stood only inches from her.
Her heart stopped.
Damon lowered his head slightly, his voice a quiet rumble.
"You look… different."
Panic bolted through her.
He knows.
He knows.
He knows—
But Damon didn't finish the sentence. His gaze roamed the veil, the dress, her trembling hands.
After a moment, he spoke again—soft, cold, dangerous.
"Remove the veil."
Alira's blood turned to ice.
The lie was about to meet the devil.