The dress fits perfectly—of course it does. Tailored months ago, before I even knew it would be mine. Before I even turned eighteen. Before they dropped the news like it was nothing.

A white cage of silk and lace. I can’t breathe in it.

Rose and my mother laugh behind me, voices sugarcoated and sharp. Like knives dipped in honey. “She’s going to be the perfect Cameron bride,” Rose says. My mother sighs. “It’s everything we dreamed of.”

We. Not me. Never me.

The hairdresser finishes curling a strand and steps back. I stare at myself in the mirror, and it hits me. This is the last moment I’ll ever belong to myself. Tears threaten, thick and hot, but I sniff them back—don’t ruin the makeup. Don’t ruin their perfect plan.

Rafe Cameron. Since childhood, he’s been the storm in every room I entered. Cold stares, dry comments, smirks that cut deeper than they should. We were never close. Never friends. Just tolerated each other because our parents were always playing puppetmasters behind the scenes. And now I know why.

Three weeks ago. A dinner party. Crystal glasses. Expensive wine. And one sentence that shattered my entire world. “You’ll marry Rafe,” my father said. “It’s been arranged for years.”

I remember how my stomach dropped like glass from a ledge. Rafe froze too. Just for a second. That was all I needed to know he didn’t want this either. But then… That mask. That “I don’t care" attitude. He leaned back, tossed a smirk, and muttered, “Figures.”

He’s always been good at pretending. I never was.

Now, the music starts. The hall erupts in golden light. The doors open.

My heart is pounding so loud I almost don’t hear my father whisper, “Walk.”

So I do. One step. Another.

The crowd rises like a wave. People I’ve never seen smile like they know me. Like they own a piece of me. And then I see him.

Rafe. Black suit. Broad shoulders. His expression unreadable—gritted jaw, those ocean eyes stormy and flat. He watches me like I’m walking toward execution. Maybe I am.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t smile. But his gaze is glued to mine, and it burns.

I reach him. The world blurs. The priest speaks, but I only hear my heartbeat.

We’re told to exchange vows, but there are none. Only silence wrapped in tension.

He slides the ring onto my finger. Cold metal. His touch lingers—just long enough to remind me this is real. A flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? No. He pushes it down. He always does.

My fingers tremble as I return the gesture. I look up at him, silently begging: Please say something. Stop this.

But he just looks at me like he’s watching a movie he’s already bored of. Then the priest nods. “You may kiss the bride.”

Rafe leans in. His hand brushes my cheek—gentle, but heavy like a collar. And when his lips touch mine, it’s not affection.

It’s a command. A seal. A quiet surrender.

It tastes like bitterness. Like lost youth. Like both of us knowing we’ve just become property. When he pulls back, his eyes flash. A cruel sort of victory. He likes seeing me hurt. But not because he hates me. Because it mirrors his own pain.

We stand there, side by side, like a painting we were forced to pose for. Perfect. Lifeless. Silent.

And inside, we’re screaming.