Syria’s POV
I stood in front of the mirror, frozen.
A team of stylists surrounded me. One carefully curling my hair, another smoothing out the creases in the long white gown I wore.
The fabric shimmered under the soft lighting, perfectly tailored to hug my shape.
I looked like a dream. At least, that’s what they wanted me to look like.
That’s what this entire day was supposed to be, a dream.
But it wasn’t.
As I stared at my reflection, I didn’t feel joy or excitement. I didn’t even feel nervous. What I felt was rage. Deep, suffocating rage.
I tried to steady my breathing, biting back the overwhelming urge to scream or cry, or both. Then, a knock broke through the tension.
“Is she ready?” a voice called from behind the door.
I recognized his voice immediately.
The door opened
