Belle stood utterly still in the middle of the grand room—a room carved not just out of luxury but out of silence, suffocating and sacred like a cathedral. The curtains were thrown wide open, allowing golden morning light to cascade through the tall windows. It washed over the polished floors, painting everything it touched in hues of fire and honey. It kissed her skin, wrapped her in light, yet she felt nothing but cold.
She looked like a dream trapped in the wrong story—a portrait suspended in time, displayed in a forgotten museum where no one came to look anymore. Beautiful, yes. Achingly so. But still. Hollow. Terrified.
Perfect.
Her wedding gown billowed around her like something conjured from a fairytale spun by someone cruel. It was breathtaking—layer after layer of ethereal tull
