I never dreamed of getting married.
Not because I don't believe in love, but because I knew it wasn't meant for me. In my life, no one ever offered me flowers. Only bills, broken promises, and the cold clink of coins falling on the table like insults.
Today, though, I'm wearing a white dress.
A borrowed dress, a little too big, a little too dreamt of for a girl like me. The lace scratches my skin, as if it knows I don't belong. Because this marriage... it's not mine. It's the one my mother agreed to for me, between too many glasses of whiskey and one too many debts.
"You're going to marry him, Ariana, whether you like it or not. He's rich. He can save us."
Rich. That's all that mattered.
I'm in a black car, the tinted windows cutting me off from the outside world. London appears like a blurry dream in the rain. People run under umbrellas, free. Me, I'm driving towards a gilded cage, towards a man whose name is all I know: Dylan Kingsley.
Kingsley. The name cracks like a threat. I heard it from the lawyer who arranged this whole nightmare. He told me he was young, powerful, influential... but also solitary, secretive, unreachable. A king without a kingdom, a prince without a smile.
I wasn't allowed to see his face.
Apparently, "Mr. Kingsley prefers discretion." I, too, would have preferred freedom.
The car stops in front of a mansion that looks like a Victorian palace straight out of a movie. The doors open and an elegant woman, with pulled-back hair and an icy gaze, greets me.
"Miss Blackwood. Follow me."
I follow her like a lost child, swallowed by the marble, the gilding, and the too-silent walls. My footsteps echo my fears. At the end of a long corridor, a door opens. And he's there.
Standing.
He wears a perfectly tailored black suit, a dazzling white shirt. His hair is deep brown, carefully styled. He looks... dangerous. Handsome, but dangerous. His gaze lifts to me, slowly. Steel gray eyes pierce through me, as if he's trying to guess if I'm a lie or a curse.
"So it's you, Ariana Blackwood," he says in a calm, almost amused voice.
I clench my fists.
"And you're Dylan Kingsley, I presume."
He smiles. A thin, almost mocking smile.
"You can say 'my husband,' can't you? We have fifteen minutes before the priest arrives."
My heart tightens. He's not joking.
"I'm not an object."
He slowly advances towards me. Each step makes me want to retreat, but I stand straight. Proud. Even if my legs are trembling.
"I never said you were. But you're here for a reason, Ariana. And so am I. So let's do what's expected of us."
I stare at him. He's younger than I thought. No more than twenty-five. But his gaze is old. Cold. As if he'd seen everything, lost everything, and no longer believed in anything. I wonder what he's hiding behind that arrogant facade.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper. "You could have anyone..."
He looks down at me, serious this time.
"Exactly. I don't want anyone. I want a stranger. Someone who isn't chasing my fortune, who doesn't know me. Someone who won't ask questions."
I am that stranger. The one who's sold when she has nothing left. The one he chose precisely because she doesn't matter.
The door opens. They've come for us. He extends his arm to me. I remain frozen.
"Are you coming?" he asks, emotionless.
I stare at his hand, as if it will burn me. Then, gently, I place mine on it. It's warm. Alive. But his heart... I feel it's far away.
And it's at that precise moment, as I'm about to take the first step towards the altar, that I hear something behind me. A voice. A silhouette. A breath.
"Ariana! Don't listen to what they told you! This marriage is a trap!"
I spin around abruptly.
But there's no one there.
Only silence, and Dylan's eyes fixed on me, cold as winter.