ChatGPT said:

The cathedral was silent save for the echo of footsteps on marble. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting crimson and gold across the aisle where she walked in white and red—red not of design, but of roses crushed against her dress, remnants from strangers' hands.

Her father sat in the front row, smug and stiff, as if this day were a business meeting and not the moment he sold her away.

At the altar stood the man she was meant to marry—Julien Verane. Cold eyes behind a charming smile. A businessman with too much wealth and not enough soul.

She reached him, heart pounding, hands trembling beneath the weight of lace. The priest began his hollow sermon, but Julien raised a hand, interrupting.

“There’s one more thing,” he said smoothly, pulling a sleek folder from behind the altar. “Before the vows… this.”

He opened it with ceremony, revealing a marriage contract.

She blinked. “A contract?”

He smiled, cruel and deliberate. “Just formality. Go ahead, read it.”

Her eyes scanned the lines—each word heavier than the last. Clauses of ownership. Restrictions. Control over her assets, movement, associations. A gilded prison disguised as matrimony.

“No,” she whispered.

Julien’s smile didn’t waver. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t sign this.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

The guests shifted, confused. Guards in the pews stiffened. Her father didn’t move—he knew. He knew all along.

Julien leaned close. “You belong to me now. Signature or not.”

He reached for her wrist.

Then—

Bang.

The doors of the cathedral exploded inward.

Gasps, screams. Chaos erupted as masked men in black stormed in, silencers hissing. Her fiancé’s guards reached for weapons—but they were too slow. Bullets found hearts before panic found footing. One by one, they dropped.

Within seconds, the pews were clear. Smoke and silence fell over the wedding like a shroud.

And then—they appeared.

Aurelian walked first. Unhurried, untouched by the smoke and death around him. Damien followed, roses still clenched in one hand, as if the massacre had been a minor inconvenience. Elian emerged last, eyes shadowed, a gun still warm in his hand.

Julien froze. “Velarossa—”

Bang.

Aurelian’s shot struck him in the leg. He crumpled, screaming.

Bang.

Damien’s bullet hit the other knee. He howled.

Bang.

Elian didn’t aim for mercy. His shot ended it.

Julien’s body hit the altar steps, lifeless.

The room went still.

She stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths, dress stained in red and white, surrounded by death—but untouched.

Aurelian’s eyes met hers. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them—regret, perhaps. Or apology.

Damien stepped closer but said nothing.

It was Elian who moved first. He walked past the blood, past the body of the man who wanted to own her, and without a word, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up.

She didn’t resist.

Outside, the sun was still rising. The sea whispered in the distance.

The three of them walked toward the shore, leaving the shattered cathedral behind. She clung to Elian, unsure whether she should cry, scream, or thank them.

She looked at Aurelian. “Why did you come?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then—softly, “Because no one owns you.”

They walked on. Her head rested against Elian’s shoulder.