#1 The Gown I Didn't Choose.

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.

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

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