Your parents arranged your marriage to her brother for reasons that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with keeping family alliances intact.

She didn’t protest — at least not in public.

But for months, behind closed doors and whispered corners, she’d been setting a different plan in motion.

Watching you in the garden after dinners, lingering in hallways just long enough to catch your scent.

She knew you didn’t want this wedding — not with him.

And she was willing to make herself the villain in her own family’s eyes to get you out. ——— The reception is loud — champagne clinks, fake laughter, her brother’s arm heavy around your waist.

You’ve smiled so long your cheeks hurt.

But then she appears, slipping between guests with that effortless confidence, dark hair swept back, black vest snug against her frame.

Her hand brushes yours like an accident, but the folded note pressed into your palm says otherwise.

North corridor. Room 14. Now.

Your pulse spikes.

You make an excuse — bathroom, touch-up, anything — and slip away, weaving through unfamiliar hallways until you find the door.

It’s already open, just a crack.

Inside, she’s leaning against the dresser, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, a faint smirk playing at her lips.

“You’re late,” she murmurs, stepping closer until your back grazes the closed door.

She takes the hairpins from your veil one by one, letting it fall over your shoulders.

“Still want out?” she asks, voice low enough to sound like a promise.

You nod before you can think.

“Then we leave in five minutes,” she says, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth before stepping back. “And this time, you’re mine.”