Alira barely remembered the moment Damon ordered her veil removed.
She remembered the cold brush of air against her face.
She remembered her pulse pounding so loudly she thought the chandelier above might shatter from the vibration.
She remembered Damon's eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—studying her as if she were an unfamiliar puzzle piece in a game he had personally designed.
But she didn't remember breathing.
Everything after that blurred together like a dream she was forced to watch without control.
When he finally stepped back, he said nothing. No accusation. No suspicion voiced aloud. Only a curt nod, as if silently concluding something she couldn't decipher.
Then he turned to the waiting guard.
"Prepare the car," Damon instructed.
Alira's heart lurched.
The guard bowed slightly. "Yes, sir."
The room erupted in motion—Damon's men speaking into earpieces, footsteps echoing sharply, doors opening and closing. Every sound sounded like a countdown. Alira felt her lungs tighten.
Her mother approached her, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges. "Everything is going perfectly," she whispered, smoothing a stray curl behind Alira's ear.
Perfectly.
The lie tasted bitter.
"Where… where are we going?" Alira managed to ask.
"To the ceremony rehearsal," her mother said quickly. Too quickly. "It's normal. Formal. Damon insisted."
Formal?
No rehearsal in the history of their family had ever required armed escorts or ten black cars lining the driveway like a funeral procession.
Damon turned back toward her, eyes sliding over her from head to toe, slow and deliberate.
"We're leaving," he said calmly. He didn't offer a hand, didn't offer an explanation. Only command. "Now."
Her mother squeezed her fingers urgently. "Go. We'll meet you there."
Alira's throat tightened. "Mom—"
"Alira," her mother whispered, eyes shining, "please don't do anything reckless."
Reckless meant trying to run.
Reckless meant telling the truth.
Reckless meant ruining the one fragile thread keeping their family alive.
But reckless also meant survival.
Still… her mother's despair pierced deeper than any threat Damon could deliver.
So Alira nodded.
Damon didn't wait. He was already walking toward the exit, expecting her to follow.
And she did.
Because what choice did she have?
---
The afternoon sun was blinding as they stepped outside. The mansion's long driveway gleamed white, framed by towering trees and the distant shimmer of the city skyline.
Ten black SUVs lined the path like silent predators.
Damon's men opened the doors in synchronized motion, their expressions cold and unreadable. Some scanned the perimeter. Others watched her.
Watched her like a possession.
Or maybe like a bomb they weren't sure would explode.
Alira's breath shook in her chest.
Damon stopped beside the largest SUV, his hand resting on the door frame. He didn't look at her, but his voice came out low and edged with authority.
"Get in."
It wasn't a request.
Her fingers trembled as she gathered the heavy skirt of her gown and stepped toward him. Every movement felt clumsy, suffocating. The dress weighed her down. Her fear weighed more.
Damon's gaze flicked toward her hands—shaking, pale, betraying everything she tried to hide.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
It wasn't concern.
It was observation.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
Damon held her gaze for a heartbeat too long, then stepped aside.
She climbed into the car.
The interior smelled like leather and cedar, cold and too clean. She sat rigidly, unsure where to put her hands, unsure how brides were supposed to behave around the man they were forced to marry.
The door shut.
The sound echoed like a lock sealing shut on a cell.
Damon entered on the opposite side, settling beside her. The car felt smaller with him inside, the air denser. Her fingers twisted in her lap.
The engine started.
And the convoy began to move.
---
The city blurred past the tinted windows as they descended from the hills, the skyline shifting from sunlit rooftops to tall towers of glass and steel. Alira pressed her palms to her knees, trying to steady the tremors.
She had no idea where Damon was taking her.
"What is the rehearsal for?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.
Damon turned his head slightly, assessing her again.
"There is no rehearsal."
Her breath hitched. "Then where—"
"The ceremony is happening today."
Her blood froze.
No.
No, no, no.
Her family had promised her tomorrow. One more night. One more chance—however small—to run. To think. To survive.
"Today?" Alira whispered, voice cracking. "But—there wasn't time—my family—"
Damon's expression didn't change. "Your mother agreed."
Her heart dropped.
Agreed.
Of course she did.
"When I said I wanted efficiency, she understood." Damon leaned back, his voice steady and unhurried. "Delays invite problems. I prefer to eliminate those."
He turned toward her then, his gaze sharp enough to cut.
"Are you afraid?"
Yes.
"Of course not," she lied.
A faint curve ghosted at the corner of Damon's mouth—not a smile, more like recognition.
"You tremble when you lie."
Her breath stuttered.
His eyes were unreadable, dark pools reflecting nothing—no softness, no mockery, just quiet danger.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "There's no reason to fear me."
The entire city would disagree.
Alira lowered her gaze, voice barely audible. "I just… wasn't prepared."
"Preparation is irrelevant," Damon said. "A bride's role is simple. Stand beside me. Say the vows. And afterward…"
He paused.
The silence felt like hands around her throat.
"…you'll be under my protection."
Protection.
The word everyone used.
The word that meant ownership.
"And if I…" She swallowed. "…If I wasn't ready?"
"Does it matter?" Damon asked lightly. Not cruel, not kind—only indifferent. "Everything is already arranged."
Arranged.
Like a chessboard.
And Alira was the piece being moved.
She clenched her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
The car turned off the main road, entering a private garden estate guarded by tall iron gates. Guards stepped aside as the convoy approached, bowing their heads respectfully.
The gates opened.
And Alira's heart sank.
The venue was breathtaking—a secluded glass chapel overlooking a lake, surrounded by white blossoms and lantern-lit pathways. It would've been magical…
If she weren't being dragged into it like a sacrifice.
The SUV stopped.
The door opened beside her.
"Come," Damon said.
His voice wasn't harsh.
But Alira heard the chains in it.
Two guards stepped closer, blocking any escape route. The perimeter was sealed. There were cameras, fences, armed men stationed at every corner.
If she ran, she wouldn't make it ten steps.
Her throat closed.
There was no way out.
The borrowed dress rustled as she stepped out of the SUV, sunlight catching the veil, turning her into a ghost. Damon's hand hovered near the small of her back—not touching, but close enough to guide.
Not close enough to comfort.
"Everything will begin shortly," he said. "Stay beside me."
She nodded numbly.
Her legs felt like they were walking her into a dream she couldn't wake from.
Or into the belly of a beast she had no hope of surviving.
As they approached the glass chapel, the doors opened wide.
And Alira realized something too late—
Damon had never intended to give her a chance to run.
He had taken her to the wedding.
And the moment those doors closed behind her…
The lie would become permanent.
The cage would lock.
And Alira would belong to a man who didn't know her name—
And would kill her if he ever learned it.