The house woke before I did. Voices rattled the corridors, footsteps thudded up and down the stairs. The sharp, sweet scent of lilies floated under my door, heavy enough to choke me. Someone burst out laughing in the hallway—one of the maids, nervous, too high-pitched. Beyond the windows, I could hear the muffled shouts of journalists camped outside the gates. They called Amelia’s name like a chant, waiting for their prize.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed to the window. The front drive was a storm—black cars lined in neat rows, cameras flashing like lightning whenever the gates cracked open. Men with cameras leaned over the iron railings, their breath clouding in the morning air, their voices tangling in the cold wind: Bride of the year, Amelia Mendes! Over here!

But Amelia wasn’t trembling, or pacing, or hiding.

I found her in the sunroom, lounging across the chaise like a goddess bored of worship. A silk robe slipped down her shoulder, one bare leg stretched against the cushions. In her hand, a champagne glass caught the light. She tilted it lazily, bubbles clinging to the rim before she set it against her lips.

For a moment, I just stared. She looked untouched, as if the chaos outside existed for someone else.

“You do realize the wedding is tomorrow?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

She smiled without looking at me. “Do you realize I don’t care?”

I moved into the sunlight, folding my arms. “This isn’t a game, Amelia. The investors are breathing down Papa’s neck. The company’s hanging by a thread. You think you can drink your way through it?”

Amelia laughed, a careless, reckless sound that made my stomach twist. “Oh, Annie. Always so dutiful. Do you know what this looks like to me? Papa’s last desperate trick. Parade his daughter in white, hand her over to a man who could buy us out ten times over, and pray for mercy.”

Her fingers tapped the rim of her glass, nails painted scarlet. “Tell me, does that sound like survival… or slavery?”

“Don’t do this.” I took a step closer, lowering my voice. “We don’t have a choice. If you walk away, Papa loses everything. Do you want to see him ruined? Do you want to see us lose the house?”

She finally looked at me then. Her blue eyes were sharp, glinting with something that looked like anger, or maybe freedom. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m tired of being bought and sold like cattle. Papa’s debts are not mine to carry.”

I flinched. “They’re ours, Amelia. Whether we like it or not.”

Her smile faltered, but only for a second. She leaned forward, her robe sliding dangerously low. “Why don’t you do it then? Why don’t you marry Nate Reynolds?”

My breath caught. Heat burned up my neck. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, but it is.” She tilted her head, studying me. “You’re perfect for him. The obedient daughter. Always willing to sacrifice. You’d make such a lovely little wife.”

“Stop it.” My hands curled into fists.

Her grin widened. “Tell me you wouldn’t, Annie. Tell me you wouldn’t give yourself up for Papa’s empire.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Her words pressed into me, sharp as glass. She laughed again, loud, reckless, cruel.

“God,” she said, shaking her head. “You really would. You’d walk down that aisle tomorrow if he asked you to.”

I turned away, throat burning. I couldn’t let her see what her words dredged up—the memory of that night. A stranger’s mouth on mine, his hands pressing into my hips, the way he made me forget everything for a few stolen hours. The guilt still clung to me like smoke, and now Amelia’s taunt had hit the wound dead center.

That night, the house finally quieted. The guests had gone, the florists had left, the caterers packed away. Only the faint tick of the grandfather clock filled the halls as I passed by Amelia’s room.

The door was half open. I slowed.

Inside, the light was soft, golden against the walls. Amelia stood by the window, her robe slipping, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low, secretive.

“Yes… tonight,” she whispered. “I can’t breathe here another second. I promise. I’ll come.”

My eyes flicked to the bed. The screen of her phone glowed, the name flashing like a knife straight into my chest.

Felix.

My heart slammed.

I couldn’t breathe. The air felt too thin, too heavy all at once. His name still tasted bitter on my tongue after all these years. Felix Perez. The man who once held my hand at parties, who whispered dreams into my ear, who kissed me like he meant forever. The man who’d only wanted what my family owned.

I could see it again—his smile, too polished to be real. The way he’d touched the small of my back as though guiding me into a future he’d already mapped out. The night I’d overheard him, laughing with friends about the Mendes fortune, about me being a stepping stone. My blood had gone cold. That night had broken something inside me.

And now Amelia was whispering to him, promising escape.

I stepped back, gripping the doorframe so hard my knuckles whitened. I wanted to storm in, to scream at her, to tear the phone out of her hands. But my feet wouldn’t move.

Later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my skin prickling with dread. The house had gone quiet. Too quiet. Then—softly—the click of a door.

I slipped out of bed, heart pounding. The hallway was dark, only a thin strip of moonlight cutting across the floor. Amelia’s room was empty. The dress was crumpled on the chair, pins still scattered around it. On the desk, a note lay half-written, ink smudged.

Annie, don’t try to stop me…

My throat closed. Her perfume still lingered, faint and fading, as if she’d carried it out into the night.

Behind me, footsteps thundered. My father appeared in the hallway, his shirt half undone, face ashen. His eyes locked on mine, wild with panic.

“Annie,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, broken. “Your sister is gone.”

The house was no longer a house. It was a cage with its bars rattling, and I was trapped inside.

By morning, word of Amelia’s disappearance had already slipped beyond our gates. Reporters clogged the street like vultures, black umbrellas blooming against the drizzle, cameras flashing whenever a servant dared open the door. They shouted questions, their voices overlapping in a sick frenzy: Is it true the bride is gone? Did she run away? Who is she with?

Through the heavy curtains, I could see them pressing against the railings, eyes sharp, mouths open like beaks tearing at carrion. And I… I was the prey, cornered, waiting for the strike.

Inside, the Mendes mansion shook with fury. My father’s voice thundered through the halls. Staff scurried in hushed panic, carrying trays they forgot to set down, dresses slipping from their arms, their footsteps quick and nervous against the marble floor. Every corner buzzed with whispers: Where is she? Who took her?

I found him in the study, hunched over the desk, phone clutched in his fist, his other hand clutching the edge as if the wood itself kept him from collapsing. His face was gray, sweat shining along his temples.

“Papa—”

He cut me off with a snarl, slamming the phone down so hard I flinched. “Do you understand what she’s done?” His eyes blazed, bloodshot. “Do you understand what’s at stake?”

I swallowed, throat dry. “We can delay—just for a few days, until we—”

“Delay?” His fist crashed against the desk. Papers scattered like startled birds. “There is no delay, Annie! Do you think Nate Reynolds will wait? Do you think the investors will show mercy?” His voice cracked, a raw edge of despair beneath the fury. “Delay means bankruptcy. Delay means humiliation. Delay means I rot in prison while this family name is dragged through the mud!”

The words struck like blows. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow.

He leaned forward, eyes boring into mine. “You think I don’t see the vultures already circling? They will tear us apart the second they smell weakness.”

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “But I can’t—Papa, I can’t marry him. That’s Amelia’s place, not mine. I won’t live a lie.”

“You won’t—” He broke off, laughless, furious. He came around the desk, closing the distance in three heavy steps. His hands gripped my shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Listen to me, Annie. Would you watch your family lose everything? Would you watch me dragged from this house in handcuffs? Would you let your mother’s legacy burn to ash because of your sister’s selfishness?”

My lips trembled. His words carved deep, pulling at every thread of duty I’d carried since childhood. Mama’s voice rose in my head, soft but heavy as stone: Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine.

“I…” The word broke. I bit down hard, tasting salt and copper on my tongue. “Papa, please…”

His grip tightened. His eyes softened for the briefest second, just enough for me to see the cracks—the fear, the desperation. “I’m asking you, Annie. Save us.”

The fight drained from me like water through cupped hands. Terror coiled in my stomach, but above it loomed guilt, thick and suffocating. How could I refuse when every breath of my father’s sounded like a plea for survival?

When I finally nodded, his hands fell away, trembling. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, as if I had pulled him back from a cliff.

The preparations began almost immediately.

The seamstress bustled into Amelia’s room, pins clutched between her teeth, fabric draped over her arms. “Stand straight, Miss Annie. No, no—chin higher, shoulders back.” She tugged and tucked, her fingers swift and impersonal as she fitted the gown to me.

The satin was cold against my skin, too heavy, too tight. I stared at the mirror, but the woman looking back wasn’t me. Her lips were pale, her eyes wide and hollow, swallowed by lace and pearls. A ghost of someone else’s life.

Two maids whispered as they laced the corset. One’s hands shook, fumbling with the ribbons. “Careful!” the seamstress snapped, slapping them away. “We don’t have time for mistakes.”

Their eyes darted to me, wide with pity, but they said nothing.

I wanted to scream. To rip the dress off and run barefoot into the rain, to vanish before they could chain me with vows that weren’t mine. But I stood still, spine rigid, the crown of Mendes duty pressing tighter, choking the breath from me.

“Perfect,” the seamstress muttered, stepping back. She adjusted the veil, letting the lace spill like mist over my face. “You could be her twin.”

My chest ached. I pressed trembling fingers to the glass, tracing the reflection. The veil blurred my features, blotted me out until only the gown mattered.

“This isn’t me,” I whispered. My voice was muffled by the lace, the words trembling in the empty air. “This is Amelia’s wedding.”

From the doorway, a shadow fell across the room. My father stood there, face hard, eyes unreadable.

“No.” His voice was ice. “This is yours now.”

The cathedral doors groaned open, and the world tilted under my feet.

Light spilled in from the stained-glass windows, jeweled colors bleeding across the marble floor in reds and blues. The scent of old wood and candle wax wrapped around me, heavy, suffocating. I clutched the bouquet so tightly the stems bit into my palms, small cuts blooming across my skin.

Every step forward was a drumbeat of dread. My heels clicked against the stone like the ticking of a clock counting down to execution.

The sound of shifting bodies filled the pews. Eyes turned. Hundreds of them. Heavy, piercing, greedy.

A ripple spread through the crowd, hushed but sharp enough to pierce me.

“That’s not Amelia.”

“Who is she?”

“Another daughter?”

“What is happening?”

Each whisper was a dagger, lodging deep in my chest. My breath stuttered, catching against the veil. I wanted to turn, to run, but my father’s hand pressed firmly into my back. His fingers dug in as though he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Keep walking,” he hissed, his voice like a warning.

So I walked.

The organ swelled, hollow and grand, yet each note pounded in my skull like a threat. The aisle stretched endlessly, like a tunnel closing in, and at the far end—waiting—was him.

Nate Reynolds.

I had only ever seen him in photographs, clipped from glossy magazines and business reports. Words like ruthless, brilliant, dangerous always clung to his name. But the man standing before me was more than words.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence seemed to command the very air. His suit was black as sin, perfectly cut, the crisp white shirt beneath making his skin seem sharper, more severe. The light from the windows struck his dark hair, and for a second he looked like a statue carved from cold marble. His gaze—black, unreadable—cut through the distance, locking me in place before I could even reach him.

My blood chilled, but something darker thrummed beneath it—a pull, unwanted and undeniable. He was magnetic in the way a storm was magnetic: beautiful, terrifying, a force you couldn’t look away from even as it promised destruction.

Step after step, my chest rose and fell too quickly. The veil brushed against my cheeks, soft lace against damp skin. My lips trembled. I wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come.

I reached the altar, breath tight, bouquet trembling in my grip.

Nate did not extend a hand. He only looked down at me with that frozen expression, as if he were examining an investment he’d been swindled into buying. His jaw shifted once, barely visible, but enough to show a storm gathering behind that calm face.

The priest’s voice echoed: “We are gathered here today…”

The words blurred. I caught fragments, the drone of promises, the clink of rosary beads as the priest turned a page, the faint cough of someone in the front pew. But all I felt was Nate’s gaze, steady and heavy, pressing against my veil.

When it came time to speak vows, Nate’s voice was clipped, precise, devoid of warmth. He didn’t speak like a groom. He spoke like a man signing a contract.

“I take you,” he said, tone flat, “to be mine.”

A shiver ran down my spine. The bouquet slipped slightly in my hands, and I almost dropped it. My knuckles burned from how hard I held it together.

When my turn came, my voice caught in my throat. “I… I take you,” I stammered, the words tasting like ashes. My lips quivered around them, my heart hammering so loud I was certain the entire cathedral could hear.

The priest nodded. “You may now lift the veil.”

Nate reached out, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed the lace, grazing the bare skin of my cheek through the delicate fabric. Heat shot across my skin from that light touch, traitorous and sharp. And then the world shifted.

The veil lifted, and his eyes met mine.

Recognition crashed into me like a blow. My breath strangled in my throat.

It was him. The stranger. The man from that reckless night. The one whose touch still haunted my skin, whose lips had burned across my collarbone, whose name I never asked.

The memory surged hot and fast—his mouth on my neck, the taste of whiskey between our kisses, the heat of his body pressing mine into hotel sheets. My nails clawing his back, his low voice in my ear. I had buried it, tried to lock it away in guilt and silence. But standing here, I couldn’t escape it.

And his eyes told me he hadn’t forgotten either.

No shock flickered across his face. No surprise. Only calculation—cold, deliberate, as if he had already expected this unveiling. His gaze slid down, slow and deliberate, a silent reminder of every inch he had already claimed once before.

My knees almost gave. Heat scorched my cheeks beneath the cathedral lights. My stomach twisted.

He knows.

The priest’s voice rang out again, distant and hollow. “You may kiss the bride.”

Nate leaned closer, his lips a breath from mine. The air between us was thick, burning, the faint scent of cedar and clean cologne enveloping me. My breath hitched, chest tightening.

But his mouth only brushed the side of my cheek. Cold, perfunctory. Gasps rippled through the pews.

The kiss wasn’t passion; it was a transaction. Signed, sealed. Completed.

Applause broke out, but it was brittle, confused. The whispers started again, louder now, a current I couldn’t stop.

“That isn’t Amelia…”

“Why would he marry the younger one?”

“Did they trick him?”

I swallowed against the rising lump in my throat. My hands trembled as Nate’s arm slid around mine, guiding me down the steps with a grip that was too strong to break.

Every eye followed us, every flash of the photographers waiting outside burned like fire across my skin. My gown dragged behind me, heavy and suffocating, each step down the aisle a reminder of the trap closing tighter around me.

Nate leaned in, his breath brushing my ear, warm against my skin. His voice was ice, sharp enough to cut.

“I should have known,” he murmured, so low only I could hear, “the Mendes family would send me a liar.”

The words lodged deep, colder than the stone beneath my heels. My chest tightened, and for one fleeting moment, I wished I could vanish into the shadows of the cathedral before the storm fully broke.

But Nate’s grip on my arm was iron, and there was no escape.