Elara Grant knew she was walking into a funeral disguised as a wedding.
She had been many things in her twenty-four years: a forgotten child, a survivor of cruelty, an orphan branded as worthless. But today, she was the bride of a billionaire heir. A glittering prize held up to the world. A sacrifice being led into the wolf's den, except this sacrifice had sharpened her teeth long before the wedding bells began to ring.
Elara was dressed in white, but all she felt was fire.
Every step toward the altar was a funeral march, each flower petal underfoot another reminder of the childhood stolen from her. And when her eyes found Damien Varezzi, the man she was about to marry, the only thing she saw was the representation of the family name she had vowed to destroy.
The guests whispered about the power of the Varezzi empire, about how perfect the match seemed. None of them could see what lay beneath her veil: anger sharpened into steel, a smile painted over rage.
Her gown clung to her like a shroud, lace and satin heavily designed with jewels. She hated the way it glittered under the chandeliers, as if mocking her past. The orphanage where she grew up had been cold, the walls cracked, the beds too small for the children stacked in them like forgotten cargo. She remembered hunger gnawing at her bones, remembered the bruises that came from caretakers who pretended discipline was love.
And through it all, she remembered the whispers: The Varezzis own this place. The Varezzis keep you fed. The Varezzis decide your fate.
They had decided hers.
They had funded the orphanage that broke her. They had written her misery into their ledger books like it was just another business expense.
And now, they had forced her into their family, thinking they were binding her in gold. They had no idea they had just invited their enemy into their house.
She raised her head as she reached the altar.
Damien stood waiting, tall and composed, an handsome figure in a tailored black suit. His expression was carved from stone, cold and unreadable, but his eyes, gray and sharp as broken glass met hers with an intensity that almost made her stumble.
Almost.
Damien Varezzi wasn't what she expected. The tabloids painted him as ruthless, a playboy billionaire groomed to inherit his father's empire of steel, finance, and shadowy dealings. She expected arrogance, cruelty, a smirk that matched the monsters who had run her orphanage. Instead, he was controlled, silent, and dangerous in a way that didn't need theatrics. He didn't need to show his power. He was powerful.
The priest's voice rose, reciting the vows. Elara's heartbeat roared louder than the choir singing behind her. She knew what this marriage was supposed to be: a merger, a performance, a way for the Varezzi patriarch to expand his influence. She was a pawn in a game she had studied her entire life.
But even pawns could become queens if they played carefully.
She repeated the vows, her voice steady despite the anger rising in her throat. Each word was a lie, a dagger hidden behind a smile. Damien repeated his without a flicker of emotion, his tone smooth, detached. He didn't look at her when he said I do.
When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, applause thundered through the cathedral. Cameras flashed, the sound like gunfire. The guests cheered for love, for legacy, for the spectacle of wealth.
Inside, Elara felt the chains tighten, not of love, or of butterflies and fairytails, but of fate and Hate.
Damien leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so cold it seared. To the crowd, it was passion. To her, it was a reminder: she had just bound herself to the enemy.
The Reception
The reception was a blur of gold and glass. Champagne towers sparkled, orchestras played waltzes, and senators, CEOs, and dignitaries fawned over the newlyweds. Elara floated through it like a ghost, smiling on cue, her hand resting delicately in Damien's arm.
He hadn't spoken to her since the vows. Not a word, not a glance that wasn't calculated for the cameras. If he hated her, he didn't show it. If he wanted her, he didn't let it slip. He was a mask wrapped in silk.
Good, she thought. Let him underestimate me.
"Mrs. Varezzi," a silver-haired senator said, kissing her hand. "You are radiant tonight. Truly a jewel for this family."
Elara smiled sweetly, though her insides twisted. A jewel. A prize. A trophy. Never a person. Never someone with her own will.
Her eyes flicked across the ballroom, finding the patriarch, Giovanni Varezzi, seated like a king at the head table. His presence was suffocating. White hair slicked back, his suit gleaming, his smile polished but empty. He clapped along with the orchestra, a man enjoying his empire, enjoying the spectacle of his son's perfect marriage.
Her fingers clenched around her glass. That man was the true architect of her misery. He had funded the orphanage that masked trafficking, laundering, and exploitation. He had kept children like her caged, disposable. He had ruined countless lives and thought no one had noticed.
But she had.
Tonight she smiled at him. One day she would destroy him.
Flashback: The Orphanage
As the music swelled around her, Elara's mind slipped back to the past.
The orphanage always smelled of mildew and rot. The windows were barred, the beds too small, the blankets too thin to keep the cold away. Children huddled together at night for warmth, whispering stories about who would be "adopted" next, though the word adoption never meant rescue. It somehow meant disappearance.
She remembered the caretakers: hollow-eyed women who snapped belts across bare skin, men whose eyes lingered too long. They told the children that their suffering was necessary, that discipline made them valuable, that they were lucky the Varezzis kept the place running.
Lucky.
She remembered the night her best friend, Lucia, vanished. A van pulled up outside. The next morning, her bed was empty. No one spoke of her again. The children learned quickly, questions earned bruises.
Elara never forgot. She carved every name of every vanished child into the wooden frame of her bed until her fingers bled. She swore she would never let their ghosts fade.
And now, standing in silk and diamonds, she carried those ghosts with her into the ballroom of her enemies.
The Dance
"Smile," Damien's voice cut through her memories.
It startled her, because it was the first time he had spoken to her since the ceremony. His hand pressed lightly against the small of her back as he guided her onto the dance floor.
She glanced up at him, her lips curving in practiced sweetness. "Is that an order, husband?"
His jaw tightened, but his expression remained unreadable. "It's survival."
The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the guests applauded as they took the floor. Damien's grip was steady, his movements precise, leading her flawlessly through the steps.
To the crowd, they were perfect. To Elara, every twirl felt like a trap, every step a chain tightening. Yet beneath her rage, there was curiosity. Damien's eyes, sharp and unyielding, searched hers as if testing her resolve.
She wondered if he saw the truth behind her veil, if he recognized the fire burning beneath her polished smile.
She wondered if he would be the weapon she turned against his own family, or if he would become her greatest enemy.
The dance ended. Applause echoed. Damien released her hand with the same precision with which he had held it. He did not speak again.
The night stretched on in a haze of speeches, laughter, and applause, but Elara's mind never left the vow she had made to herself.
They think they've caged me in gold, she thought, her gaze drifting once more to LorenzoVarezzi's smug smile. But I am not a jewel. I am not a Sacrifice. I am fire. And one day, I will reduce their empire to ashes.
The ballroom doors swung open, breaking the moment. Lorenzo entered, flanked by his guards, his shadow stretching like a blade across the floor.
"Elara," he said smoothly, "your carriage awaits. Damien will accompany you to the estate."
Elara's throat tightened, though her smile didn't falter.
The empire was waiting. The cage was waiting.
And she was prepared to step into it willingly.