The Wrong Bride: Married to The Ruthless Billionaire

I never believed in fairytales. But if I had, that belief would have shattered the moment I stepped into Adrian Blackwood’s bedroom wearing a wedding dress that wasn’t even meant for me. The silk felt heavy against my skin, suffocating. Like chains dressed up as lace. I stood there, my heart pounding so loud it filled my ears, while Adrian sat in the armchair across the room. Not even on the bed. Not even pretending. Those eyes, dark, sharp, merciless, skimmed over me with the same interest he might give to a cracked wine glass. “You,” he said finally, his voice low, smooth, and dangerous. “Are not my bride.” I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, but my voice came out anyway, cracked but steady. “I… I know.” The corner of his mouth lifted in mockery, not a smile. His tuxedo jacket hung open, his tie loosened like he’d ripped it off in disgust. He looked like sin carved into perfection, every line of him hard and deliberate. But his gaze on me? It was ice. He leaned back, steepling his fingers, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. “Do you think I’m a fool, Elena?” Hearing my name on his lips sent a shiver through me. Not the good kind. “No,” I whispered. “You’re not.” He laughed once. Short. Bitter. “My bride ran away, and they shoved you in her place. Do you think I don’t know that?” The humiliation burned hotter than the blush on my cheeks. I clenched the skirt of my dress in my fists, nails biting into my palms. “They said… if I didn’t… my family” “Your family,” he cut me off, his voice like a whip. “Pathetic enough to sell you like cattle.” I wanted to scream that he was right. That I was sold. That my beauty - this cursed face everyone praised—had been my prison since I was sixteen. That my family used it as currency while I starved for love. But my throat locked. All I could do was stand there, trembling in the gown that didn’t belong to me, while Adrian’s eyes stripped me down to nothing. He stood. Slowly. Predatory. Every step he took toward me made my breath falter. When he stopped in front of me, he was so close I could smell him—clean, expensive cologne, undercut by the sharp bite of whiskey. He tilted his head, studying me like I was some cheap imitation of what he’d been promised. “You think this face will save you?” he murmured. His fingers lifted, brushing against my cheek. The touch was soft, but it burned. “It won’t. Beauty doesn’t buy loyalty.” I flinched, because his words cut deeper than any knife. Then he dropped his hand and stepped back, his expression closing off into something cruel. “You’ll stay in this marriage. Because I don’t like scandals.” His voice dropped lower, steel under velvet. “But don’t fool yourself, Elena. You’re nothing more than a placeholder. A shadow. The wrong bride.” My lips parted, but no sound came out. My heart cracked—no, it shattered—because even though I hadn’t loved him, even though I hadn’t chosen this, some foolish, naive part of me had hoped. Hoped he’d see me. But he didn’t. He turned, walked to the bed, and pulled the covers back. Not for me. For himself. “Turn off the light when you’re done standing there like a ghost,” he muttered. Then he slid under the sheets, his back to me. Just like that, my wedding night ended. I stood in the dark for a long time, fighting the sting in my eyes, the scream clawing at my throat. And I swore—if there was a God, if there was justice, if there was even a sliver of fate left for me—one day, Adrian Blackwood would regret ever looking at me like I was nothing. I didn’t know it then. But that night wasn’t just the beginning of my humiliation. It was the beginning of my end. Because betrayal doesn’t come all at once. It comes in whispers, in shadows, in knives hidden behind promises. And by the time I realized it, I was already bleeding. But I’ll tell you this: death is not the end. At least, not for me.