The bridal room was beautiful in the way birdcages often are. White, gold-trimmed, and heavy with pressure. It smelled of roses, hair spray, and something faintly metallic, like nerves held too long in the throat. Soft music played from a hidden speaker. Harp strings and artificial calm.

Scarlett Jonathan sat at the vanity in the center of it all, spine too straight, lips too quiet, motionless, skin glowing under layers of artistry, while the hairstylist pinned her curls into soft waves. Her eyes, though, wandered to the door, to the windows, to the corners where dust might collect if perfection ever allowed it.

She looked like a painting waiting to be auctioned.

“You look unreal like a dream, darling,” breathed the stylist, stepping back with the kind of awe usually reserved for gallery halls.

“That neckline, though…” said the makeup artist, eyes glinting. “And that gown... God, it’s almost sinful. Like it was made for you.”

Scarlett offered a polite smile, the kind that crinkled nothing. She didn’t trust mirrors anymore. They had stopped showing her what she felt years ago.

The gown shimmered under the lights, ivory silk, laced sleeves, a delicate corset that drew in her waist like it owed someone an apology.

“Do you remember when we tried it on?” the stylist asked, twisting a curl just right. “You just knew, didn’t you?” Scarlett blinked. Her smile faltered.

...Yes, she remembered!

......................

Three months ago at the private boutique with no walk-ins, no cameras. Just imported fabrics, champagne, and Damien Ashwood seated in the corner like he owned the air.

He hadn’t said a word when she stepped out in the first dress. Or the second. On the third, he finally stood up.

It wasn’t white, it was ivory with a shadow of blush, barely there. Laced back, dramatic train, and silk sleeves that hugged her like whispers. She thought it was too much.

Damien didn’t.

“That one,” he said.

“It’s a bit… dramatic,” she offered, turning toward the mirror.

He crossed the room, slow, precise. His fingers grazed the curve of her arm before resting at her waist.

“They’ll see you once,” he said. “Make it unforgettable.”

“I want something simpler–”

“You’ll wear this.” No edge. No threat. Just final.

The stylist had clapped. Her mother had nodded. And Scarlett, she had smiled, because it was easier.

......................

At present, the exact gown shimmered again under bridal lights. And somewhere beneath the corset and layers of lace, her lungs forgot how to stretch.

She whispered, mostly to herself. “I didn’t choose this gown.”

But no one heard her.

They were still fixing her veil. Still perfecting the trap.

The door opened and a lady in golden satin gown entered with a soft click. Not rushed. Not loud. Just… precise. Like everything Elena Jonathan did.

Scarlett didn’t need to look up. She knew that perfume, jasmine over ice water. She knew the sound of heels that never stumbled, of expectations that never cracked.

“Everyone’s nearly seated,” her mother said, stepping into the bridal room like it was a courtroom. “Your father’s handling the press. Garrett is coordinating with security. No sign of any... hiccups.”

Scarlett met her reflection again. She looked like a woman in a gown, nothing more, nothing less...

“You’re quiet,” Elena observed, smoothing the already-pressed veil. “I suppose that’s better than hysterical.”

The stylists exchanged glances and slipped out, sensing the air had thickened with something less powdery and far more permanent.

Scarlett still didn’t speak.

“You look beautiful”, her mother smiled lightly,

Scarlett lowered her eyes.

Elena stood beside her, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her dress.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said. “Marriage isn’t always easy, but with time, you’ll learn.”

Scarlett hesitated. “Learn what?”

Elena tilted her head.

“How to be quiet when it matters. How to pick your battles. How to bend without breaking.”

She said it so calmly, as if it were a recipe. “That’s not always a bad thing,” she said. “There’s peace in compromise.”

“Is there?” Scarlett asked, softer now. “Or is there just silence?”

Elena looked at her for a long time.

“You want love to be different. I know.”

Scarlett's voice trembled. “What if it isn’t?”

Elena reached out and touched her empty neckline.

“Then you learn to live around it. You’ll find your own happiness in time.” Her touch was warm. Familiar. But it felt like a chain around Scarlett’s throat.

“You were not scared?” she asked in low voice.

Elena blinked slowly didn't expecting that question.

“Of course I was. But I told myself it was just the nerves. All brides are scared, Scarlett. That’s what they always say.”

Scarlett nodded slightly. Not because she agreed but because she’d been trained to.

Elena circled slowly, like a judge before a verdict. Then, at last, she softened more, or tried to.

“I was about your age when I married your father,” she said. “He was taller than I expected. Smiled more, too. I thought that meant he would listen.”

Scarlett’s eyes flicked to her.

“But he didn't, right?” she asked.

Elena paused, just for a second. Then resumed straightening the lace on her daughter’s shoulder.

“No. But you learn not to need that. You learn to live… peacefully.”

“That’s not the same as happily.”

Her mother exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

“Happiness is a myth, Scarlett. Peace is achievable.”

“Even if it means being unheard?”

“Especially then.”

A silence bloomed. Heavy. Sad... Elena crouched down suddenly, gently adjusting the hem of Scarlett’s gown. It was the most human thing she’d done all morning. But her voice stayed firm.

“You won’t find a more stable future than Damien Ashwood. He will never love you in the way that makes men weak. And that’s a gift, not a tragedy.”

Scarlett swallowed hard. The corset pinched tighter, or maybe her ribs were just folding.

“I don’t want a love that weakens,” she whispered. “But I don’t want a love that commands, either.”

“Then I suggest you learn the art of swallowing words.”

Elena rose slowly, smoothing her own dress like she hadn’t just offered her daughter a lifetime of silence wrapped in silk. She stepped toward the dressing table and opened a velvet box with practiced care. Inside rested a choker of delicate gold filigree and crimson rubies, like blood caught in frostlight.

Scarlett froze.

“Your grandmother’s necklace,” her mother said softly. “She left it to you. I thought today… it might bring you strength.”

Scarlett’s fingers twitched at her side.

Her grandmother Marianne had worn that necklace on her wedding day, a marriage of love, not convenience. The memory of her grandmother, the only person in that house who ever spoke in warmth instead of rules, flooded through her like perfume trapped in a closed room. She used to hold Scarlet’s hands between her own and whisper stories of rebellion, of poetry, of dancing in storms.

Her grandmother had once called her name a promise.

“Scarlett,” she’d said once, “red means courage. You’ll need it more than I ever did.”

Scarlett blinked hard, her vision suddenly blurry. “She would’ve wanted to be here,” she said under her breath. “If she were... I think I’d know what to do.”

Elena fastened the necklace without responding, her fingers gentle but mechanical.

“She’s not here,” she said. “You are. And so is Young Master Damien. That’s all that matters today.”

The rubies felt heavy against Scarlett’s collarbone, like inheritance disguised as love. Like her grandmother's voice, buried beneath layers of someone else’s silence.

Her mother stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“Perfect,” Elena said with a soft, distant pride. “Now you look like a Jonathan bride. Make sure to not lose our reputation in your in-laws. Your father has lots of expectations from this marriage.”

Scarlett didn’t respond. She only stared into the mirror and wondered if her grandmother’s hands could still reach through time. If she could still live for herself.

“I’ll send the final call in five.” Elena patted Scarlett, light as paper. “Remember, don’t think too much. Just smile and step forward.”

Smile and step forward.

.

Smile and step forward.

.

Like a doll in a jewelry box.

The door clicked shut behind her mother, and the silence that followed settled like ash.

Scarlett didn’t move.

She sat frozen there, in the middle of the bridal suite, surrounded by untouched perfume bottles, half-drunk champagne, and the hum of air-conditioning that couldn't cool the heat rising in her chest. The room, for all its gold and white, felt like it was crumbling. 

Scarlett didn’t cry... Not because she wasn’t breaking but because she’d grown up in a house where silence was a survival tactic.

She knew how to hold herself still. How to smile on command. How to answer questions no one asked with the answer they expected.

She had learned that from her mother.

Her fingertips brushed the lace sleeve of her dress and her hands trembled harshly. Her eyes again moved back to the reflection in the mirror.

Pristine. Silent. Beautiful... Exactly like her mother.

This wasn’t fear. This was the beginning of clarity.

I always thought love would set me free. I didn’t know love was supposed to feel like flying, not folding. I am staring at my reflection again. My lips are painted. My eyes, lined in gold. The girl in the mirror is perfect. But she’s not free. She’s meant to be chosen. Displayed. Obeyed.... Just like my mother.

...****************...

Thanks for reading!

The laughter outside the bridal suite echoed like it came from a different world, polished, planned, and practiced.

Scarlett closed the bathroom door behind her and locked it with trembling fingers.

The room smells like roses and hairspray. Like pressure. Like panic dressed up as celebration. The silence is so loud. It rings.

However, the bridal suite bathroom was too white. White walls. White tiles. White light so bright it made her feel translucent, like the truth might start bleeding through her skin if she stayed too long.

She stood in front of the mirror again. But this time, there was no audience. No stylists. No mother. Just a girl in silk and lace. The mirror greeted her with a stranger's face. Her hair was curled, pinned with pearls. Her eyes were lined in gold. Her lips wore a shade her mother had picked. She looked beautiful. Untouchable. Finished.

But her eyes... God, her eyes!

They looked like someone standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing they were never taught how to fall without vanishing.

My reflection in the mirror doesn’t look like me. She’s beautiful, they all said. “You look like a dream, Scarlett.” But dreams are soft and fleeting. This feels like drowning in silk.

The gown clung to her ribs like it didn’t want to let go.

My hair is pinned perfectly. My eyes are lined just right. And yet, I’ve never seen someone look so… trapped. I don’t know who she is. I don't think she knows either.

Her fingers went to the necklace, her grandmother Marianne’s rubies, too warm on her skin, too alive for a day that felt like mourning. Then not with a scream. Not even a sob. Just a slow, shaking release, like a dam cracking quietly at the seams.

Is this what they all did? My mother? My grandmother? Smiled and stepped forward?

Her mother’s words echoed back:

“Marriage isn’t always easy, but you’ll learn. How to be quiet when it matters. How to bend without breaking.”

But Scarlett was already bending. Had been for years. She was bent so far she no longer knew where her voice ended and her silence began. She thought marriage would be different. That it would mean freedom. A chance to be herself in a new home. To be loved. To be safe.

However, Damien didn’t ask questions, he issued instructions. He liked her soft. He praised her silence. He loved her beauty, not her voice. She had ignored the signs at first. The way he brushed aside her opinions like lint on his suit. The way his touch became possessive during the engagement photoshoot. Not loving. Claiming.

Scarlett gripped the sink, her knuckles pale against the porcelain. Her reflection didn’t look back at her. It stared past her. Through her. She gripped the porcelain edge with both hands and leaned in, as if staring hard enough could summon someone, her grandmother, maybe. Or a version of herself that hadn’t disappeared under other people’s decisions.

Her fingers clutch the edge of the sink, knuckles pale, trying to breathe,

But it’s tight. Everything’s tight.This dress. These expectations. That future... Him.

She again tried to take a deep breath. It broke halfway. She blinked once. Then again. But the tears wouldn’t fall. Her chest ached, lungs wrapped tight in lace and silence.

Her grandmother had once said to her, “Marry someone who listens, and... if no one listens, marry yourself first.”

But Marianne wasn’t here now. She wasn’t here to pull her from the altar or rip the veil off. Only her words remained, clinging like thorns.

Scarlett tried to breathe. Instead, her mind slipped unforgivingly, unavoidably into the one memory she had buried beneath white roses and polite silence.

... It was a family dinner at the Ashwood Estate, two months ago.

She had worn a formal white top with green embroidery that her mother picked and a soft green long skirt she adored, simple, floaty, the kind that moved like spring. She recalled stepping out of the car, adjusting the hem nervously, only to find Damien already watching.

He had looked her over, gaze deliberate but unreadable.

Then he said, “Next time, wear something that knows you better. That outfit doesn’t do your figure justice.” He’d said it lightly. Almost like a compliment.

She had laughed flushed taking it as a... complex compliment. But she felt the weight of his stare linger longer than the words.

Scarlett remembered how heavy everything felt that night.

The forks. The chandeliers. The silence.

She tried her best to sit straight under the weight of staring eyes. It was her official welcome dinner into the Ashwood family though it felt more like an interview she hadn’t prepared for.

At the long, polished table sat five Ashwoods and one stranger with a sharper smile than Scarlett had expected.

The Ashwood estate’s chandeliers burned brighter than the conversation.

Damien sat in front of her across the table, quiet and composed.

On Damien’s right sat his father, Thomas, distracted and curt. And on left was Edmund, Damien’s uncle, who kept his tone light but had the warmth of a closed vault. Next to Edmund sat Maria Alden, Edmund’s secretary. Beautiful, complacent, and somehow already inside every conversation.

Scarlett had no idea why she was there.

To Scarlett's right sat his mother, Margaret Ashwood, her back impossibly straight, her eyes sharper than her words.

And at the far right end, silently watching everyone, sat Alaric Ashwood, Damien’s grandfather. His silver cane rested beside his chair. His eyes held something different: not warmth, but... humanity.

While Margaret’s gaze had been unblinking.

“Your voice is delicate,” she had said to Scarlett, “but I hope your convictions aren’t.”

Scarlett had nodded, unsure what to say.

Margaret had taken the silence as weakness. Edmund had taken it as amusement.

And then there was Damien. “Scarlett doesn’t speak unless she means it,” he said calmly, without looking up from his glass. “That’s why I like her.”

The room shifted.

Scarlett smiled, small and careful. “And I suppose I like people who let me speak.”

It was meant as a light remark.

But Margaret had gone still.

Edmund had smiled like he’d heard a joke with teeth.

“You’ll learn to choose your words more wisely,” Margaret said, placing her fork down. “In this family, silence is not submission, it’s strategy."

“I do hope you’re prepared,” Maria said, cutting her salmon with unshaken grace. “Being an Ashwood bride requires more than just good breeding.”

Margaret had looked unimpressed.

Thomas had cleared his throat and gone back to his plate.

Damien didn’t look up from his glass.

Scarlett had smiled politely. She didn’t yet know how sharp dinner could feel.

“Scarlett,” Edmund said, pouring himself another glass of wine, “you’ll find Maria indispensable. She runs my office and keeps this family from falling into scandal.”

Maria smiled without looking up.

“I work in diplomacy,” she said, lightly. “Especially when it concerns Damien’s... attachments.” Her eyes flicked to Damien, not long enough to accuse, but just long enough to linger. Scarlett kept her posture polite. She wasn't sure what Maria was implying, but the air around the table stiffened ever so slightly.

Margaret finally spoke, eyes trained on Scarlett. “Being an Ashwood wife requires more than elegance. It requires discipline.” Thomas made a noise under his breath but didn’t speak. And Maria just smirked knowing very well what Margaret meant.

“It requires obedience,” Edmund said, with no inflection at all.

Scarlett’s fork paused mid-air. “I believe it requires strength more,” she said, gently but clearly.

Maria smiled and cut in again, this time more directly.

“Strength is overrated in housewives,” she murmured, still smiling, voice light like a compliment.. “What matters is alignment.” Her eyes now on Scarlett. “Knowing when to blend in instead of standing out. When to stay still.”

“Maria,” Damien said without raising his head.

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. The command was in his voice.

“Just trying to help,” Maria replied smoothly, but the smile she gave Scarlett was anything but genuine. “I only meant, she seems kind. It’s not always a good thing, Damien.”

Scarlett’s fork paused mid-air again. Her stomach curled.

“Being kind isn’t weakness,” she said softly.

“No,” Margaret replied with sudden coldness. “But it often leads to it.”

Scarlett glanced at Damien, hoping, foolishly, for something... A defense. A look. A single word that told her she wasn’t alone. Instead, he set down his wine glass calmly and spoke like he was commenting on the weather.

“Scarlett doesn’t stir where she doesn’t need to. That’s what makes her right for this family.”

Scarlett blinked. He didn’t say she was strong nor compatible. He said she was right that too not for him but for the family. Like a well-fitted furniture. She looked down at her plate, hands suddenly shaking.

It wasn’t an insult.

It was worse.

It... was the truth he believed.

Her throat went tight. She remembered the knot in her throat. How Damien never contradicted his mother. How Thomas looked down at his plate and didn't care to acknowledge her presence for once let alone speaking up for her. How Edmond took her as nothing more than an amusement. And how Maria, an outsider gave her a mocking pitiful look.

And that’s when she felt the certainty for the first time, that this room, this family, this name… would not let her be loved without being managed, being compromised.

Then, softly, unexpectedly came another voice.

“You remind me of someone,” Alaric Ashwood who was quiet the entire dinner said, his voice aged but clear. He was speaking to Scarlett. “Someone who married into this family before she knew the cost.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment.

Thomas blankly stared at his father with something deep swirling in his eyes. While Margaret entirely avoided the remark.

Alaric’s eyes, kind in a way none of the others’ were, settled on her.

“Don’t mistake silence for loyalty, dear. And don't let others make decisions for you.”

It was the only thing that reached her that night.

And the only thing she remembered with warmth when she woke up sweating the next morning as well at present when the rubies are heavy on her throat and the dress already beginning to feel like a cage.

Especially after how, Damien held her hand firmly, led her to his car after leaving the dining hall and whispered slowly to her in his usual deep tone:

“Don’t worry. They’ll respect you… once you belong to me.”

Not with me. To me.

The way he said it soft, almost reverent, terrified her more than if he’d shouted. The look of possession in his eyes scared her beyond limits. She had heard that he was dangerous but how much no one knew because no one survived him. And neither she believed she could. Cause the uncertainty was horrifying.

Her chest caved. Her eyes burned. The tears didn’t fall yet, they hovered, waiting for permission. The bouquet she had set down earlier tipped over and spilled onto the floor, white roses collapsing with more grace than she could ever manage.

Scarlett sank to the floor, gown pooling around her like like a cage made of lace, the ghost of a future she hadn’t written. She let out a breath that sounded too much like a sob and pulled her legs close to her chest, hugging them beneath the layers of tulle. The rubies on her neck hot now. Like fire trapped in gold.

“This is not me,” she whispered.

Not the dress. Not the rubies. Not the obedient silence wrapped in ivory.

“This is not what I wanted.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth as a quiet sob slipped out, sharp, fast, like a bruise she’d been hiding too long. Her body folded forward, fists tightened around the knees over the ivory train of her wedding gown.

I always thought I'd feel something different. Not joy, maybe but certainty. Peace. That soft, glowing kind you see in movies when the bride walks down the aisle and everyone forgets to breathe. Instead, I’m sitting on the cold tile of a hotel bathroom, knees tucked to my chest, in a dress that cost more than my grandmother’s home, trying not to cry in case someone hears.

The lace tore slightly where her fingernail caught the edge. And still, no one knocked. Because no one knew the bride was breaking.

In that moment, she wasn’t Scarlett Jonathan. Not a name on a guest list. Not the woman in Damien Ashwood’s future. Not even the girl her grandmother once named after courage.

She was just a girl with a neckline too tight, a future too silent, and a mirror that wouldn’t look away.

But Scarlett snapped back to the side-mirror. Her face now blurred. Her shoulders trembling.

He’s waiting down the floor. Smiling. Confident. Always saying the right things.

I didn't pay any heed to the rumours & used to think he was sweet. Until I learned he only liked me when I was quiet. I wasn’t marrying a man. I was surrendering to one.

Like a whisper too soft to be heard, “I don’t want this.”

“I don’t want him.” she whispered, to no one.

It didn’t sound like rebellion.

It sounded like truth.

Like a quiet little bird fluttering inside her ribcage, desperate for air.

She looked beside at the side-mirror again.

And this time, she didn’t see a bride.

She saw a girl on the verge of disappearing.

For a moment, she pictured her mother in her wedding dress. Quiet. Compliant.

She imagined herself ten years from now, obedient, silent,... lifeless.

"No!"

My chest aches with the kind of sadness that feels ancient like I inherited it from every woman who said “yes” when she wanted to scream “no.” My heels lie near the bathtub. I stare at them like they might change their mind for me. But I already know. I’ve known since last night when they told me I was "lucky to be chosen." Since I laughed politely and folded myself smaller, like I always do.

I’m not lucky. I’m scared.

And this is the moment I realize, I can’t do this.

She clutched her stomach, trying to quiet the trembling. But it was no longer nerves.

And suddenly, the decision was no longer a question.

Not in anger. Not in panic. But in a kind of terrifying peace she made her decision.

Everyone’s waiting.

For me to disappear into a version of myself they can live with.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind again:

“All brides get scared. You’ll find your own happiness in time.”

But she wasn’t afraid anymore.

It was a pulse.

It was a scream stitched in silence.

It was clarity of the fear wrapped in realization.

She couldn’t marry into a name that devoured women whole.

“If I walk down that aisle,” she whispered, “I’ll never be able to walk freely again.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

And that’s when the first tear fell... Quiet. Sharp. Free.

It didn’t fall like panic.

It fell like strength.

Like her - Scarlett!

...****************...

Thanks for reading, dove!

The Ashwoods knew how to host an event.

They didn’t throw wedding. They staged power play in formalwear.

It wasn’t just a celebration. It was a performance, a public spectacle, grand, calculated, an orchestra of connections, whispers, and way too many people who didn’t care about the couple but cared deeply about the headlines.

The grand hall was glowing shimmered in wealth, every inch polished for optics with soft ivory and golden sconces flickered along vaulted walls. A string quartet was playing just loud enough to keep conversations sounding elegant that drifted in English, French, and the language of power. The chandelier above looked like starlight caught in crystal spilling golden light across polished marble. The air smelled of imported roses, expensive nerves, and perfectly chilled champagne which flowed like rivers, older than half the guests.

And so were the grudges.

Guests mingled in curated clusters, politicians, corporate heirs, old-money socialites draped in jewels, and the  journalists lurked like perfume in the corners, flashing smiles and cameras politely around the edges, desperate for a glimpse of Scarlett Jonathan, the soon-to-be bride of Damien Ashwood.

But she wasn’t here. Not yet.

Instead, the Ashwood family stood poised like statues at the edge of a dynasty, graceful, powerful, and slightly terrifying.

Margaret Ashwood, flawless in navy, stood near the floral arch, every inch the queen of this quiet empire.

Thomas Ashwood, her husband, floated beside her, like a shadow, mild & forgetful.

Alaric Ashwood, the patriarch, sat near the front row with his cane resting beside him like a warning dressed in wood and silver, watching all of it unfold like a man who knew how empires were both built and broken.

And, Edmund Ashwood, Damien’s uncle, always two feet from power, laughed in whispers with a foreign diplomat, drink untouched, flanked by his secretary: Maria Alden. His secretary.

Some said she had once been more. No one said it twice.

Maria was dressed in steel gray satin, her dark hair in a knot too perfect to move & stood calm and unreadable just behind Edmund’s shoulder, lips still, eyes everywhere. She wasn’t here as a guest but as a presence. Her gaze scanned the room like a sniper, cool, elegant, dangerous.

Maria didn’t speak much cause she didn't need to. Either way, she hadn’t blinked once after entering the hall.

Damien, of course, as always, stood apart, near the aisle, perfectly tailored and perfectly alone.

Calm. Cold. Unbothered.

He was impossible to read. Hands in his pockets. Jaw tight. Suit flawless. He looked like a man bored of waiting and used to getting his way.

To anyone watching, he was a composed groom.

But to anyone listening… he hadn’t spoken in over ten minutes.

And amid all this silent perfection, Risa Shaw, the people-wrangler, the troubleshooter and minor goddess of crisis moved like caffeine in a room of wine.

The Ashwoods might have controlled the stage, but Risa Shaw ran the show.

Risa was one of the most sought-after wedding planners in the country not because she was polite, but because she was fast, flawless, and had a habit of making the impossible happen while wearing heels and a shade of lipstick that said “don’t test me.”

Her heels clicked like punctuation marks against marble. Her headset buzzed with whispers from panicked vendors. And still, she smiled. A clipboard tucked under her arm. And a mild panic rising behind her ribs.

She passed between staff like a general, adjusting napkins, lowering candlelight, and defusing tempers with the speed of someone who was too tired to be afraid of elites anymore.

“Okay, the string quartet needs to switch to the walk-down piece in fifteen,” she muttered in her headset, flipping her smudged clipboard, checking the timeline. “Florals fixed. The seating for the governor’s family is still off. The cake is crooked. Priest’s drinking quietly in a corner, and one minor detail: our bride, still in hiding. Amazing, we love a climax.”

She scanned the room and spotted Garrett Jonathan sitting alone near the bar, sipping ginger ale like it was whiskey and the world had personally betrayed him.

She marched over like a storm dressed in pastel.

“You,” she pointed. "Groom’s side or Bride’s side?”

He raised a brow. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

“Risa Shaw. Planner. Chaos-fighter. Miracle worker.”

He gave a wry smile. “Garrett. Brother of the bride. Occasional buzzkill & I believe miracles take longer.”

“They do. That’s why I need you to go get your sister so she can walk down the aisle and marry your favorite future brother-in-law.”

“Ah.” Garrett sipped his drink. “You’re new to this family, aren’t you?”

“Brand new. Still holding onto hope and hydration. So... will you go?”

“I’m her elder brother. So, that's not happening.” He replied dryly.

“Well, someone has to go. Mr. Damien looks like he’s about to kill the string section.”

He glanced toward his mother, Elena Jonathan, who was deep in conversation with an oil tycoon’s wife, her laughter just a little too loud. Unavailable as ever. He looked back, jaw tightening.

“My mother’s too busy showing off to check on her own daughter.” His voice dipped, tired and bitter.

“And you?” Risa asked, catching the flicker in his tone. “Too busy brooding to help?”

“No, just trying to avoid throwing Damien down a marble staircase.”

Risa blinked. “Okay. Love that. Let’s bottle that rage for later. Right now we need Ms. Scarlett here. They’re stalling the aisle music for her.”

“I’ll get someone else.”

He scanned around again but this time with his jaw tightened.

“Where’s Isabelle?”

Garrett found her near the rose wall backdrop, holding a flute of champagne she hadn’t touched and basking in the attention of girls who tried a little too hard to be her.

Isabelle Jonathan.

She was stunning, in that surgically perfect, editorial-magazine way. Hair curled like a porcelain doll, dress fitted to her flawless curves, and heels that could kill a man twice. But what really made her dangerous was her mouth and the boredom behind her eyes, surrounded by a flock of bored heiresses.

Garrett stopped a few steps from her, already bracing and looked at their youngest sibling lounging on a chaise like she’d invented the concept. Pink lips, perfect curls, and an expression that said “I don’t care unless it costs at least a thousand dollars.”

If Scarlett was poetry, Isabelle was the punchline.

“Isabelle.”

“No.” She didn’t even glance his way.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“You want me to check on Scarlett. And I’m telling you, NO!”

...

“Not even a hello?”

“I’d rather save my breath for something meaningful. Like sipping this trash champagne.”

Garrett exhaled. “Scarlett’s not in the hall. She’s still in the bridal room. Everyone’s waiting.”

“And this is my problem, why?”

“You’re her sister."

She snorted. “Barely. She’s more like a myth in this family. Always polite, locked in her room. I’ve spoken more words to this glass than I have to Scarlett in the last month.”

“She raised you.”

“Correction, she fed me and told me not to touch the stove. That’s not the same thing.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You know damn well she gave up her teen years for you.”

“Because someone had to after Dad’s work hours and Mom’s charity galas.”

“Yeah. Someone. Not you, apparently.”

That finally got her to look at him sharp, amused, venom behind the gaze.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, it must be nice to walk into every room like it owes you something. Scarlett sacrificed everything and all you’ve ever done is call her boring.”

“Because she is,” Isabelle shot back. “She’s quiet and mousy and lets people walk all over her. That’s not strength, Garrett. It’s passivity. She’s the bride, not a ghost. And if she didn’t want this marriage, maybe she should’ve said something before she let Mom choose her dress.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that Scarlett always played the martyr, and we all applauded it. You, especially.”

“At least I appreciated her,” he said, voice low. “You treat her like she’s in your way.”

“That’s because she was,” Isabelle snapped. “She was always everyone’s soft spot. I had to be sharp because there was no space left for fragile.” (⁠ノ⁠ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ⁠)⁠ノ

Garrett sighed heavily, "Okay, I know you have your own issues with her, but you are her bridesmaid for today. Don't forget that."

"Well, I only agreed because Mom promised me a new car. She didn't necessarily say that I have to behave like her bridesmaid, so that doesn't count." Isabelle said smirking.

“You want her out of that room, go ask her yourself,” Isabelle mocked. “Or better yet get Damien to drag her down the aisle. He’s good at taking what he wants anyway.”

Garrett stiffened. That landed too close.

“And you’re the family pet. NOW MOVE!” Garrett ordered coldly this time using his elder brother card. (⁠⌐⁠■⁠-⁠■⁠)

She scoffed. “God, you sound like Dad.”

“And you sound like an annoying crow.”

"Only an equally annoying jackass would say that."

They glared. ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ

It wasn’t new. Garrett and Isabelle had been arguing since birth. She thought he was all bark. He thought she was all bite. Both were right.

The tension was heavy enough to wrinkle satin. Nearby, Risa Shaw hovered like someone watching a spark crawl toward gasoline.

She stepped between them like someone defusing a glittery bomb before Isabelle could drop another verbal dagger.

“Wow,” she said, flatly. “Sibling trauma at its finest.”, she clapped her hands once. “If I’d known I was stepping into a Greek tragedy, I would’ve brought popcorn and wine.”

Isabelle raised a brow. “You are?”

“The woman who made sure this wedding didn’t implode two hours ago when your caterer dropped the vegetarian entrée list into the fountain.”

That was a good shot! The tension eased slightly.

“Risa Shaw. Planner. And an amateur peacemaker. Hi!"

Garrett raised a brow at her amused.

Risa smiled. “I can handle chefs, media, and Damien Ashwood’s mood swings. I can definitely handle you.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and turned to her, visibly annoyed.

“Lovely. Now walk away. This is between siblings.”

“Yes, I gathered that from the emotional shrapnel flying in every direction.”

Garrett barked a laugh, Isabelle glared, but Risa didn’t flinch.

“Look,” Risa said, softening just enough to be heard, “I don’t care about your grudges. I care that your sister is in a room, alone, while a thousand people are waiting for her to walk down the aisle including one very terrifying groom who hasn’t blinked in twelve minutes.”

“No offense,” Isabelle said, crossing her arms, “but this feels like a you problem.”

“Yes,” Risa agreed sweetly. “But it could be your moment.”

Isabelle's posture stiffened. (⁠´⁠⊙⁠ω⁠⊙⁠`⁠)⁠！

“What do you mean?” She asked with a little softness lacing her tone.

“I mean you’re the only one Scarlett might not expect. And right now? She doesn’t need comfort. She needs someone who will barge in and force her to breathe.”

“She won’t even open the door.”

“Then open it anyway. Be annoying. Be impossible. Be her sister. It’s the only job in this family no one else can do.”

A pause.

“She hates when I speak.”

“Then whisper.”

A long pause.

But then, to Garrett’s surprise, she relented.

Isabelle rolled her eyes flicking her hair. “You’re very smug for someone in kitten heels.”

“And you’re very scared for someone in designer eyeliner.”

Garrett blinked dumbfounded. (⁠☉⁠｡⁠☉⁠)⁠!

Isabelle’s mouth twitched.

“Fine. But if she’s crying, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.”

“And if she throws something-”

“You duck. You must be good at that.”

Isabelle huffed.

Garrett blinked stunned, coming back to reality. "Get her to the hallway behind the doors, I will be waiting there with Dad."

Isabelle just nodded and finally walked off, heels echoing like thunder across the marble.

“You got her to go. How... did you do that?”

“Simple,” Risa said, checking her watch. “Don’t fight a queen. Just speak her language.”

For a second, Garrett forgot to speak.

"That’s… terrifying."

“I’m not proud of a lot of things in life,” Risa said, scribbling on her clipboard, “but I once coordinated a billionaire’s wedding and got his three ex-wives into the same photo. Nothing scares me now.”

“You might be the first person she’s ever listened to.”

“Correction, she tolerated me. Big difference."

"Still you actually handled that headache without getting an headache. That is like a miracle for me."

She looked up at him, grinning.

“You should see what I do to late florists.”

He chuckled. “Scarlett’s lucky to have you here.”

“Everyone’s lucky to have me here,” Risa said brightly, “Especially your family.”

Garrett chuckled. Then paused. “... Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Risa replied. “We still have one bride hiding, one possibly dangerous groom, and a thousand overly curious guests. Ask me again when no one’s crying and the cake is still upright.”

He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning either.

“I’ll buy you a drink later,” he said.

“You will,” Risa replied and walked off.. “And it better be strong.”

Garrett watched her go, something new flickering behind his usual scowl.

...****************...

Thanks for reading (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)!