Beautiful Weapon

Chapter 1

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.