Chapter 2: A Bride in Chains
1699 Words
The morning after my wedding night, I woke up in a bed that felt colder than stone.
Adrian was already gone. Of course he was. Billionaires didn’t waste time lying beside the women they despised.
The sheets on his side were barely wrinkled. I stared at them for too long, wondering if he’d even slept, or if he’d spent the night thinking about the woman who was supposed to be here instead of me.
The woman I’d replaced.
I sat up slowly, the wedding dress still bunched awkwardly on me. I hadn’t even changed. My hair hung in messy waves, makeup smudged like a bad painting. The girl in the mirror across the room looked like she’d survived a war and lost.
And in a way, she had.
When I finally walked downstairs, the Blackwood mansion was buzzing. Servants moved silently, heads bowed, like shadows slipping across marble. The house was too big, too polished, too perfect. And in the center of it all was me, a blemish on a flawless surface.
I followed the sound of voices into the dining hall.
Adrian sat at the long glass table, coffee in hand, a newspaper spread in front of him. His sleeves were rolled up, tie gone, hair slightly tousled in a way that made him even more infuriatingly handsome. Like a storm wrapped in a tailored shirt.
His assistant stood beside him, reading off schedules in a clipped tone. “Meeting with the board at ten. Call with Tokyo at twelve. Charity gala Friday—”
Adrian’s gaze flicked up when I entered. Sharp. Cold. A flicker of annoyance passed across his face before he looked back down at the paper.
“You’re late.”
Late. To what? To breakfast? To a life I didn’t even choose?
My stomach knotted. Still, I forced my voice steady. “Good morning.”
He didn’t reply.
The assistant gave me a polite but pitying look before gathering his things and leaving. The silence he left behind was thick.
I sat down at the far end of the table, the distance between us laughable in a room that could fit fifty people. The servants brought me food I couldn’t taste—eggs, fruit, toast arranged like artwork.
I tried to eat. I tried to be invisible. But every scrape of my fork sounded deafening.
Finally, Adrian spoke. His tone was casual, but his words landed like a blade.
“You don’t belong here, Elena.”
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.
He set down his coffee cup and leaned back, studying me like I was a problem to solve. His jaw flexed, and I realized he hadn’t shaved; tiny stubble darkened his face, making him look even more dangerous.
“You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it,” he continued. “You were shoved into this marriage to save face. But don’t fool yourself—” his eyes locked on mine, and my breath caught, “you’ll never be my wife.”
The words stung so much I had to look away. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered.
“No,” he said flatly. “But you didn’t refuse, either.”
My lips parted, but no sound came out. How could I explain? How could I tell him my family had threatened to throw me out, cut me off, leave me drowning in debts that weren’t even mine? That my “yes” had been dragged out of me by desperation, not desire?
But what would it matter? To him, I was just a liar in a white dress.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping back against the marble. His expression was unreadable, but his hands were clenched at his sides.
“Stay out of my way, Elena. That’s the only advice I’ll give you.”
And then he was gone. Again.
---
Days blurred into weeks. I became a ghost inside the Blackwood estate—seen but not acknowledged.
The staff treated me with cautious respect, but I caught the whispers when they thought I wasn’t listening. She’s the wrong bride. She’s temporary.
Sometimes, I thought Adrian forgot I even existed. He was always gone—meetings, deals, endless nights at his office downtown. When he was home, he passed me like I was furniture.
And yet… every so often, I’d catch him looking. Just for a second.
His eyes would find me across a room, dark and unreadable, lingering just long enough to make my pulse race. But the moment I noticed, he’d turn away. Pretend it never happened.
It was torture.
Because no matter how much I told myself to hate him, some traitorous part of me ached for the tiniest scrap of warmth from him.
---
One evening, I was really lonely, I found myself wandering the east wing.
I hadn’t meant to. I only followed the faint flicker of candlelight down the long corridor, my slippers whispering against the carpet. The walls here felt different—older, darker, as if they remembered a history the rest of the mansion had polished away.
I paused at a door half-cracked open. Inside, dust lay thick on the furniture. The curtains sagged, untouched for years.
A portrait hung above the fireplace—a woman, stern and beautiful, her eyes so piercing it felt as though she was looking straight through me.
I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering though the air was still. I didn’t belong here. I didn’t belong anywhere.
The floor creaked suddenly, and I gasped, hurrying back the way I came, heart pounding like I’d been caught trespassing.
By the time I returned to my room, my pulse was still racing. I hadn’t done anything wrong. But guilt clung to me anyway.
---
The first fracture came at the Blackwood charity gala.
I’d been forced into a silver gown that shimmered under the chandeliers, diamonds heavy on my throat. My reflection in the mirror was dazzling, but it felt like armor that didn’t fit.
When Adrian appeared at my side, he looked devastated. Midnight-black suit, cufflinks gleaming, hair slicked back with lethal precision. His arm brushed mine, and I had to bite back a shiver.
To the crowd, we were the perfect couple. Smiling. Elegant. Untouchable.
But when his lips bent close to my ear, his words were poisonous.
“Don’t embarrass me tonight.”
I forced a brittle smile for the cameras, even as my heart cracked.
The gala glittered with power—politicians, moguls, socialites dripping wealth like perfume. And then she walked in.
Isabella Hart.
The real bride.
Tall, graceful, her crimson gown clung to her like fire. Her eyes locked on Adrian instantly, a secret familiarity in the way her lips curved.
My stomach dropped.
She was the one he should have married. The one he wanted. The one I’d been shoved in front of like a decoy.
And when Adrian’s gaze softened—just slightly, but enough—when he looked at her, I felt the knife slide between my ribs.
---
The ballroom glittered like a stage, and I was the mistake left standing in the spotlight.
When Adrian stepped away to confer with a senator, I was alone again, clutching the stem of my champagne glass as though it could anchor me. It didn’t. The laughter, the whispers, the stolen glances—all of it pressed down until my chest ached.
“Elena, isn’t it?” The woman in emerald silk smiled at me, her diamonds flashing like knives. “How lovely. Though you look… well… a bit lost. I suppose the Blackwood world is rather large for someone like you.”
Her friends chuckled softly, each sound another lash.
Heat flared behind my eyes. I wanted to defend myself. To say something—anything—that would wipe that smugness from her face. But the words dried in my throat. My tongue was heavy, my lips numb. I managed only a small, stiff nod, and their laughter grew.
When they drifted away, I stood frozen, my cheeks burning with humiliation. The champagne trembled in my hand, rippling with the force of my shame.
Across the room, Adrian watched. Not once did he come to my side. Not once did he stop them.
I lowered my gaze, throat thick with unshed tears, and tried to make myself smaller. If I could disappear into the crowd, maybe I wouldn’t have to feel their eyes on me.
But invisibility never saved me.
---
Later, as we rode back in the black car, the silence between Adrian and me was colder than the night air outside. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the passing city lights.
Finally, he spoke. “You embarrassed yourself tonight.”
The words sliced deeper than the laughter had. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, forcing myself not to cry in front of him.
“I didn’t—” I started, but the protest died before it reached my lips. What was the point? He wouldn’t believe me. He never did.
“You’re weak,” he said flatly. “This world will eat you alive.”
The worst part was, he was right.
---
Back in my room, I pressed trembling hands against the vanity mirror. My reflection stared back—red-rimmed eyes, painted lips trembling, skin too pale. I didn’t see my wife. I didn’t even see a woman.
I saw a shadow.
Tears spilled freely, hot and unrelenting, streaking the powder on my cheeks. My chest heaved with silent sobs until I collapsed onto the bed, curling into myself like a child.
The mansion swallowed the sound, just as it swallowed me.
But in the quiet, between broken breaths, a thought whispered through the cracks of my despair.
If I am weak now… I won’t always be.
It was not a roar. Not even a vow. Just a fragile thread of hope clung to with bloodied fingertips.
And yet, even the faintest whisper can echo.
I closed my eyes, heart heavy with shame, and felt it—that same shadow of doom that had haunted me since my wedding night.
- Writer
