"This marriage will happen, so stop fussing and get ready," Thomas Calder said, his voice sharp as steel.
Evelyn Calder felt the last flicker of hope inside her shatter. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, her face turned to the void. She did not cry; tears had long since ceased to matter. There was only the heavy, suffocating certainty that her life was slipping into a hell of her own making. Every plan, every desperate plea, every tiny act of rebellion had been crushed under the weight of inevitability.
She remembered every attempt she had made: the arguments that had been met with cold dismissal, the reasoned words that had bounced off deaf ears, the fleeting thought of leaving home and running into the unknown. None of it had saved her. And now, she was here, staring at the white dress laid out before her, its pristine folds mocking her helplessness, a silent herald of the life she had not chosen.
The room seemed smaller, stifling, the walls closing in as the sound of Thomas Calder's footsteps echoed like judgment. Then his roar cut through her thoughts.
"Get her ready within the hour. We cannot keep Mr. Ashford waiting."
Evelyn's hands trembled as she touched the edge of the dress, the fabric cold beneath her fingers. She wanted to scream, to fight, to vanish into nothing—but there was no energy left in her for such defiance. All that remained was the hollow resignation of someone who knew the chains were already around her wrists.
Evelyn found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was flawless, her hair swept into a low bun, a headpiece of sparkling gems resting atop her head. The veil trailed behind her like a river of white silk, and the dress hugged her figure in all the right places.
She pitied herself. This was the life most girls dreamed of: beauty, elegance, wealth, a prestigious name. A marriage to the most handsome man of a family even richer and more powerful than her own.
And yet, what did it mean when the man she was to marry despised her? Her beauty, her perfection, meant nothing to him; all he saw was an ugly soul beneath the porcelain. The riches she possessed were never hers to control, and her charming, handsome husband-to-be was nothing but a beautiful shell concealing poison.
She walked alone toward the gates of the wedding hall. Her father, Thomas Calder, came forward to escort her down the aisle. She took his arm, the hand of the man who valued power and wealth above his own daughter, a man willing to throw her into hell for profit.
Inside the hall, she caught sight of him—Silas Ashford—standing rigid at the end of the aisle, his eyes blazing with unbridled rage. She looked away and stepped forward, each movement heavy with resignation.
At the altar, her mother's face shone with joy. To her, this marriage was perfect. All of Evelyn's rebellious attempts were mere childish mistakes, meaningless compared to what was "best" for her. Her beautiful daughter, her social standing, her family name—all deserved a man like Silas Ashford.
The vows were exchanged with the chill of ice.
When it came time for the ceremonial kiss, Silas's gaze locked onto hers, and Evelyn felt as though he was peering straight into her soul. His hands gripped her waist so tightly she feared she might break, and when his lips pressed to hers, the kiss lasted so long that she gasped for air.
Everyone in the hall saw only passion, only love restrained no longer. Only Evelyn knew the truth: from the very first touch, he had been hurting her.
After the kiss, he wanted to vanish, to flee far from this charade. But his father, Liam Ashford, demanded appearances be maintained. The family could not lose face; he would attend this wedding, and he would appear… happy.