It is my wedding day.

A day most girls dream of, yet for me it feels like a carefully staged execution. I stand here, draped in silk and diamonds, bound not by love, but by chains of duty and power. The air inside the cathedral is thick with perfume, candle smoke, golden light pours through stained glass

windows, painting the walls in shards of ruby and sapphire. The guests sit in perfect rows, dressed in jewels and silk, their fake smiles fixed like masks. They are not here to witness love they are here to witness a transaction.

My father sits near the altar, his presence

commanding, his eyes filled with pride. Not pride for me, but for himself for the empire he has built on blood and fear. My mother is beside him, her face unreadable, cold as stone. They do not see a daughter. They see a weapon polished for display, a bridge between two warring dynasties the Agassi and the Grigoryan.

My father, a man as ruthless as the empire he built. To him, I am nothing more than another trophy, a million dollar face polished and

displayed to strengthen his untouchable

reputation I have never been a daughter only a tool.

Years of violence, betrayal, and revenge have scarred both families, though I was never told the reason why. I was never given answers. Only

orders. And now, I am the price of peace.

For years, blood has stained the ground between them, a feud passed down like a curse. No one ever told me why. No one cared to. All I know is that I was chosen to be the sacrifice for peace.

The dress I wear glows under the chandeliers, worth more than most will see in a lifetime. But to me, it is no more than a gilded cage. I wanted something else, a different life. I dreamed of

becoming a doctor, of saving lives instead of

being bartered away to protect my father’s bloody legacy. But dreams, I learned long ago, are fragile things easily shattered by power.

As the doors open and I step into the aisle, the air grows heavy. I feel the eyes of the crowd burning into me. Men with greedy stares strip me bare in their minds, while women whisper behind jeweled hands and their jealous stares tear me apart. Let them stare. Let them choke on it. Inside my head, I spit the words, Fuck all of you.

Holding my head high, my long lace veil hides the tears in my eyes and the anger in my broken soul.

I walk slowly down the aisle, each step heavy, echoing like a verdict. The lace of my veil brushes the marble floor, trailing behind me like a.

shadow. My dress sparkles under the chandeliers, but all I feel is its weight. To them, I am beautiful. Untouchable. A vision. The face they call angelic. But beneath the diamonds and silk, I am only a prisoner.

And then I see him.

Arsen Grigoryan.

He stands at the altar, tall and unyielding, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure. His dark hair gleams under the light, his tailored suit sculpted to perfection. He is dangerously

handsome, with a smile that looks warm but feels sharp, like the edge of a knife. His eyes deep,

unreadable, carrying shadows follow me as I

approach. To everyone else, he is a dream, a prince from a fairytale. But I know better. Fairytales don’t exist in families like ours.

When I finally reach him, my trembling hand is placed into his. His grip is strong, steady, almost claiming. He leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear just enough for only me to hear.

“Smile,” he whispers, his voice low, smooth,

commanding. “If you’re going to play the doll, play it well.”

My stomach twists, but I force my lips into a

perfect curve, the way I was taught. To the guests, I look mind blowing. To him, I am

obedient. Inside, I am breaking.

The priest begins the vows, his voice echoing through the cathedral like a chant. Words of love, faith, and union hang in the air, empty and hollow. My mind drifts as he speaks, torn between rage and despair. Every part of me wants to run, to scream, to tear this dress from my body and disappear. But my feet are rooted, my fate sealed.

When it is my turn, my voice trembles but does not falter. I repeat the words forced upon me, each one cutting into my soul.

And then it is Arsen’s turn.

He speaks with ease, his voice deep and smooth, carrying through the church like music. He looks at me as he says the words, his expression

unreadable, his eyes sharp and calculating.

But when he says I do, something flickers there

something dark, something I cannot name.

The priest blesses the union, the rings are

exchanged, and applause fills the air like thunder. My father smiles, my mother nods, and the guests cheer as if peace has truly been bought.

But as Arsen leans down to press his lips against mine, I feel it.

This is not peace.

This is war.

And I am the battlefield.

The music is loud, the hall drowning in laughter and clinking glasses. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto endless rows of tables heavy with food and wine. Guests raise their glasses to us, their cheers sharp and hollow, like the sound of chains clashing together.

I sit beside Arsen at the long head table, my new husband. His arm rests casually on the chair behind me, his presence commanding, his smile flawless. He looks every bit the charming,

confident, untouchable. People swarm him,

offering toasts, handshakes, promises of loyalty. They look at me only as the bride, the prize, the proof that the war is over.

But when no one is watching, his hand tightens slightly on my waist. Not gentle. Not tender. A

reminder. A warning.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, leaning closer so his lips almost brush my temple. His voice is smooth as velvet, but the steel beneath it is sharp. “Keep smiling. They’re all watching.”

So I do. I raise my glass, I smile at their hollow compliments, I laugh at words I don’t even hear. Inside, I feel nothing but a rising panic.

Across the hall, my father watches proudly, his cold eyes glinting with victory. My mother sits beside him, unmoved, sipping her wine as though this is just another business deal. And maybe that’s all it is to them.

Hours pass in a blur of speeches, music, and dancing. My head aches, my feet burn, but the mask never slips. When the final toast is raised, the crowd erupts into applause, and the truth strikes me like a blade. There is no turning back.

Soon, it is time to leave.

The car ride to his estate is silent, except for the hum of the engine and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Outside, the city lights blur into darkness. Arsen sits beside me, his hand resting loosely on my thigh. Not

affectionate possessive.

When we arrive, the mansion looms in the night, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. The air is heavy, the silence almost unbearable. Servants line the entrance, bowing as we pass, their faces expressionless.

Inside, the halls are grand and cold, filled with shadows. My footsteps echo against marble floors as I follow him upstairs, the long train of my gown dragging behind me. The closer we get to the bedroom, the more my chest tightens.

Finally, the doors close behind us. The room is vast, the bed impossibly large, draped in silk and velvet. The air feels suffocating.

Arsen turns to me, his smile gone now, his expression unreadable. He takes slow steps toward me, his eyes fixed on mine.

“You’re mine now,” he says simply, his voice low, steady, carrying no warmth. “Not your father’s. Not your mother’s. Mine.”

The words strike through me like chains tightening around my body. My breath catches, my hands clench at my sides, but I don’t move.

His hand reaches up, brushing the veil from my face, revealing me fully to him. His gaze lingers, dark and heavy, as if he is memorizing every

detail. For the first time, I see something flicker in his eyes not desire, not tenderness, but hunger. A hunger I don’t yet understand.

And I realize, with a cold shiver down my spine, that the real ceremony begins now.

...Wedding night. ...

The bedroom feels like a trap.

The walls are too tall, the air too thick, the silence too heavy. My gown lies in a heap at my feet, silk and lace abandoned like shed skin. I stand there in nothing but my veil and trembling resolve, staring at the man I have just married.

Arsen.

He doesn’t smile now. That charming mask he wore for the world has fallen away, leaving only steel and shadows. His presence swallows the room, and I feel like I am shrinking under his gaze.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice low and smooth. “Are you afraid of me?”

I don’t answer. My silence betrays me.

My father’s voice echoes in my head be the

perfect bride, do your duty but inside I want to scream.

His fingers trail slowly along my jawline, tilting my face upward until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They are unreadable, cold one

moment, smoldering the next. I feel like prey caught in the stare of a predator.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly, almost amused. “Are you afraid of me?”

I swallow hard, my voice trapped in my throat. I don’t answer. His lips curl slightly, as if my silence is the answer he wanted.

Arsen steps back, loosening his tie, removing his jacket with deliberate ease. Every movement is calculated, controlled, as though even undressing is part of the performance. His presence fills the room, making the walls close in.

I stand frozen, the weight of my gown

suffocating. My mind screams to run, to fight, but my body refuses to move. Instead, I hear my

father’s voice in my head you will do your duty.

Arsen stops in front of me again, his gaze

sweeping down, studying me like a prize he’s just claimed. Then, with one swift motion, he reaches behind me and begins to undo the endless row of buttons on my gown.

“Such a beautiful dress,” he murmurs.

The words sting because they are true.

As the gown slips from my shoulders, pooling like spilled moonlight at my feet, I feel exposed, stripped of the only shield I had left. His hand brushes lightly across my collarbone, then down to my wrist, where he holds me firmly not

painfully, but enough to remind me of his control.

“You think you’re a doll,” he whispers, leaning close, his breath warm against my ear.

“Something to be displayed. But you’re not. You’re mine now. And I don’t collect dolls. I break them… and remake them.”

A shiver runs through me something I can’t yet name.

His lips brush mine slow, deliberate, testing. Not tender, not gentle, but claiming. The kiss deepens, rougher, hungrier, until I feel the ground tilt beneath me. My body betrays me, torn between resistance and the pull of something darker, something I was never prepared for.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto mine with dangerous intensity.

“Tonight isn’t about peace,” he says. “It’s about war. And it starts here, in this room.”

He pushes me gently but firmly onto the bed, the silk sheets cold against my skin. And for the first time, I realize this marriage is not the end of my freedom.

It is the beginning of my captivity.