You sat frozen in the bride’s waiting room, the white wedding dress draped over you like an elegant prison. Its beauty felt like a mockery—this dress wasn’t meant for you. It was Anna’s, your perfect half-sister, the golden child your family cherished while you, the stepdaughter, lived in her shadow.

After your parents’ divorce, your world crumbled, only to shift again when your mother remarried a wealthy newspaper mogul. Now, here you were, about to marry Nathan Prescott—a man who embodied power and perfection.

He was the ideal son of Richard Prescott, a politician destined for the presidency. Hailed as a prodigy, Nathan was the youngest spokesperson in presidential history.

The arrangement had originally been between Nathan and Anna—a strategic union merging your stepfather’s media empire with the Prescott family’s political power. But Anna, ever defiant, fled the night before the wedding, leaving you as the replacement. Saying no wasn’t an option. To preserve appearances and their alliance, you were forced into her place.

Nathan entered the room, his every move deliberate. In his hand, he carried a sleek black folder, which he placed before you without a word. It was the marriage contract. As your hands flipped through the pages, one clause stood out: The wife cannot file for divorce. The penalty? An astronomical fine that would shatter you financially for life.

Your stomach churned, but refusal wasn’t an option. With a shaky breath, you signed the document. Nathan took it back with cold efficiency, slipping it into his jacket. You thought he’d leave, but instead, he knelt before you, producing a small box. Inside was Anna’s wedding ring.

Nathan took your hand, his touch steady but devoid of emotion, and slid the ring onto your finger. His cold eyes met yours as he spoke, each word cutting like a knife.

“Forget the illusion that we are husband and wife,” he said, his tone unyielding. “You were sent here as my hostage.”