Shattered Vows

The wedding dress clung to Liara’s slender frame like a final layer of armor, delicate yet suffocating. The pure white silk shimmered under the chandelier lights of the grand Thorne estate hall, but nothing could disguise the hollowness in her eyes. This was not a celebration. This was a sentence. Around her, the room buzzed with polished laughter and polite applause, guests toasting champagne flutes like they were part of something beautiful. But she knew better. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t the beginning of forever. It was the start of a cage she’d willingly stepped into. At the far end of the aisle, he appeared. Evan Thorne. Impeccably dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, his expression was unreadable. Cold. As always. The air seemed to shift around him — every step he took sent a ripple of discomfort through the hall. He didn’t look at her. Not once. And yet, she felt the weight of his presence more than anyone else in the room. The man she loved. The man who despised her. “Will the bride and groom please step forward,” the officiant announced, his voice cutting through the thick air like a knife. Liara inhaled deeply. One shaky breath. One lie dressed in silk and diamonds. She lifted her skirt and walked — not to her future, but to the man who had become her past, her present, and now her prison. As she reached him, Evan didn’t extend a hand. He merely glanced at her with eyes colder than winter rain, then shifted his gaze back toward the officiant. No smile. No softening of the jaw. No trace of tenderness. Just obligation. He hadn’t wanted this marriage. He hadn’t even hidden it. But he had his reasons. Just like she had hers. The officiant began, voice smooth with ceremony: “Evan Thorne, do you take Liara Xu to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to cherish her, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?” A pause. Evan turned to look at her, only briefly, as if verifying she was still there. His jaw tensed. His voice, when it came, was sharp and dry. “I do.” No affection. No warmth. Just two syllables forced through clenched teeth. The officiant turned to her. “And do you, Liara Xu, take Evan Thorne to be your lawfully wedded husband, to honor and to love him, in joy and in sorrow, for all the days of your life?” Liara’s lips parted, then closed again. For a fraction of a second, she almost couldn’t speak. Almost. But her heart had made this decision long before today. Before the proposal. Before the deal. Before the hatred. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.” The audience applauded. Flashes of camera lights lit the hall. She felt the cold band of the ring slide onto her finger. His hand wrapped around hers for a moment — firm, but impersonal. Like a contract being sealed. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. Not yet. The wedding night was colder than the ceremony. Their suite on the top floor of the Thorne estate was breathtaking. Velvet drapes. Gold leaf furnishings. Champagne chilling on a marble counter. A bed too big for two people who no longer knew how to speak to each other. Evan removed his jacket and threw it carelessly over a chair. He didn’t look at her. “You can take the left side,” he said simply, his voice low and distant. Liara stood by the window, still in her wedding dress, her fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the curtain. The city lights blinked below like distant stars, so far removed from the silence between them. She turned to face him. “Are we not going to talk? About anything?” Evan finally looked at her — and for the first time that night, there was something flickering in his eyes. Anger? Bitterness? Regret? “There’s nothing left to say,” he said, coldly. “You got what you wanted. The ring. The name. The house. Congratulations.” Her heart twisted. “That’s not what I—” “Save it, Liara.” His voice cut through her like a blade. “This marriage is a contract. You know the terms. Don’t expect anything more.” And just like that, he turned away and walked into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him. Liara stood frozen, the silence crashing over her like waves. The dress felt heavier now, like it was stitched from iron rather than silk. She had married the man she loved. But he had married the woman he hated. Liara stood in place for a long time, unmoving. The cold from the marble floor seeped into her feet, but she hardly noticed. Her fingers tightened around the curtain, knuckles white. For a moment, she wished the window would just shatter in her hands — that something would make this pain visible to the world. How had it come to this? She walked slowly to the edge of the bed, sat down, and stared at the ring on her finger. Platinum. Elegant. Beautiful. A symbol of commitment in other people’s stories — but in hers, it was a shackle. She remembered the first time she met him. She had been seventeen — wide-eyed, naive, and hopelessly in awe of the older boy with a sharp jawline and sharper mind. Evan had been twenty-two then, already drowning in family responsibilities, already groomed to take over the Thorne Empire. He rarely smiled, even back then. But on the rare occasions that he did, it had been enough to make her breath catch in her throat. She remembered one winter afternoon when he had helped her up after she slipped on the icy pavement outside her father’s estate. He had offered his gloved hand, looked directly into her eyes, and said, “Careful. The world doesn’t go easy on dreamers.” That was the day she had fallen for him. Hard. And now? Now he wouldn’t even look at her. The walls of the suite pressed in around her. Every luxurious touch — the embroidered pillows, the polished hardwood floor, the faint scent of roses — only made her feel smaller, like a doll misplaced in someone else's life. She lay down, not bothering to change out of the dress. The zipper bit into her skin, the lace scratched at her neck, but she didn’t move. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. There was no space left in her chest for tears. In the next room, Evan stood by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He hadn’t turned on the light. The shadows suited him better. He stared at the dancing flames, but saw nothing. He could still see her face when she said “I do.” There had been no hesitation. Just… acceptance. A kind of quiet bravery that twisted something inside him. Why? Why had she agreed? She had known what this marriage was. A cover. A ceasefire. A calculated arrangement between two powerful families — one ruined by scandal, the other bruised by tragedy. A move meant to repair public image and seal private silence. So why had her voice trembled? Why had she looked at him like that? He downed the whiskey in one gulp, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. Evan told himself he didn’t care. That he couldn’t afford to. Liara Xu was the daughter of the man he held responsible for everything — for his brother’s death, for the lies, for the darkness that had swallowed his family whole. She was not innocent. No one in that house was. And yet… That look in her eyes. It haunted him more than he cared to admit. Midnight passed. Liara still hadn’t slept. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling. Every now and then, she imagined hearing footsteps — maybe he would come in, say something, anything. But no sound came. She finally rose and walked barefoot toward the window again. Outside, the city was alive with lights, traffic, and a world that moved on, unaware of the girl trapped behind glass. She let the tears fall this time. Silent. Slow. Uncontrollable. Not because of the rejection. Not even because of the coldness in Evan’s voice. But because she had known this would happen. And she had still walked down that aisle. Because some part of her, stubborn and stupid, had believed that maybe — just maybe — standing beside him would be enough. That time would wear down his hatred. That love could grow, even in the ruins. But now, she saw it clearly. This was not soil where anything could bloom. This was salt and ash. At 2:00 a.m., there was a knock at the door. Not Evan. A maid entered quietly, carrying a silver tray. On it was a folded note and a cup of tea. “From Mr. Thorne,” she said gently, then bowed and left. Liara’s heart jumped, stupidly hopeful. She opened the note. “You’re expected to attend tomorrow’s board meeting. Wear something appropriate. Don’t be late.” No signature. No warmth. Just orders. She held the note in her hands until her fingers crumpled the edges. Then she tore it in half. And again. And again. Until nothing remained but paper dust in her lap — and the weight of a thousand unsaid words in her chest.