Crimson Vows

The echo of footsteps bounced off the marble floors of the Valtor mansion. Aria Rosalyn stood silently by the window of a grand bedroom, her hands clenched tightly in front of her as she tried to steady her breathing. She wore a delicate bridal gown—something that might have looked beautiful on another day, in another life. Her magenta hair was pinned neatly, her soft eyes downcast, trembling with uncertainty. She had always known her fate wouldn’t be a happy one. But never had she imagined this: married off like a pawn, with no say, no voice—just like always. Her new family, the Valtors, had not welcomed her. The servants ignored her. The eyes that met hers were filled with disdain. And her so-called husband, Auren Valtor... hadn’t even come to their wedding. “Just business.” That’s what her father had said coldly, not bothering to meet her eyes. “Don’t embarrass me, Aria.” Aria flinched at the memory. Her body still ached from all the slaps of her past—verbal and otherwise. She touched the bracelet around her wrist, the last thing her mother ever gave her. Suddenly, the door slammed open. She turned in shock, heart leaping to her throat. There he was—Auren Valtor. His sharp green eyes, glinting with something unreadable, locked onto her. He looked exactly like the rumors: dangerous, charismatic, and unpredictable. He didn’t say a word. With heavy steps, he strode in, his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. He picked up the wine set from the table, poured a glass, and downed it in one go. Then he turned to her with a smirk—not kind, but biting. Aria took a step back instinctively. “A-Auren Kun…?” But before she could react, he marched toward her, eyes gleaming like a hunter closing in. “You’re the girl they shoved on me, huh?” he muttered. Aria didn’t answer. He grabbed her wrist—not painfully, but firmly. She gasped as he leaned down, lips brushing dangerously close. “Let’s get this over with,” he whispered. Then, without warning, he kissed her—not with affection, but with force, pouring the rest of the wine into her mouth from his. Aria choked, eyes wide in panic as the bitter taste spilled between their lips. When he pulled away, his expression was unreadable. “Don’t expect kindness, Rosalyn,” he said, turning away. “You’re just another piece in their game. And I don’t play nice.” He left the room, leaving Aria trembling and breathless, the wine burning in her throat—just like the beginning of a fire she never asked for. Her first kiss—ripped from her like everything else in her life. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then slowly sank onto the edge of the bed, still dressed in her bridal gown. The room, despite its beauty, felt like a prison. Gilded, ornate, and cold. This isn't a marriage, she thought. It's a sentence.