married to the enemy

meeting Him

I turned my head slightly but didn’t answer.

The door creaked open, and for one foolish second, I wished—prayed—that it would be Nina. That she had somehow slipped past my father’s ever-watchful eyes, sneaking in one last time. But no. That hope was as foolish as thinking I could escape.

Instead, three women entered. Their soft footsteps barely disturbed the silence. Their muted gowns and blank expressions told me everything—they had been instructed not to engage. Behind them, two men in black suits hovered near the door. Guards. Not for my safety, but to ensure I didn’t try anything reckless.

The tallest maid dipped into a curtsy. “It is time to prepare, miss.”

I didn’t move.

She hesitated, but only for a moment, before motioning to the others. They stepped forward, hands gentle but firm as they pulled me to my feet. My limbs protested, stiff from days spent curled in bed, my body sluggish. I didn’t resist. But I didn’t help either.

They led me to the vanity, where a gown hung from a wooden mannequin beside it. I had seen glimpses of it during its making, but never like this—never finished, never waiting for me.

It was beautiful. Elegant. And it felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

The fabric was an ethereal shade of ivory, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered under the morning light. Long-sleeved, high-necked—modest yet regal. The bodice hugged the waist before cascading into layers of silk. A dress for a princess.

But I was no princess.

I was a prisoner walking toward her cage.

My fists clenched, nails pressing into my palms.

Still, I said nothing as they began their work.

They brushed out my tangled hair with mechanical ease, smoothing it into an intricate twist. A dusting of powder, a flush to my cheeks, a touch of color on my lips—transforming me into something delicate, something beautiful, something that looked willing.

But my eyes—my eyes gave me away.

Dark. Hollow. Unblinking.

A doll, I thought bitterly. A perfectly dressed doll, ready to be placed in someone else’s hands.

Somewhere outside, the distant roll of car wheels signaled the arrival of guests. My stomach twisted.

“Where is my father?” My voice cracked from disuse.

None of the maids met my gaze.

“The master will meet you at the ceremony,” the tallest one said, securing the final pin in my hair.

So that was it. No last words. No pretense of care.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, my fingers brushing over my wrist where I had once worn a bracelet—one I had taken off the day he sold me.

The maid hesitated. “Is there anything you require, miss?”

I could ask for Nina. I could ask for my phone. I could beg for an answer.

But what was the point?

I shook my head.

They helped me into the gown. The weight of it settled over my shoulders, suffocating. It fit perfectly, as if it had been molded for me.

As if this had been decided long before I ever had a say.

A soft knock. One of the guards stepped inside.

“It’s time.”

I inhaled sharply. Steadied myself.

This was it. No more fighting. No more running.

The only thing left was to face whatever awaited me.

Before I turned, my gaze fell to the vanity.

Nestled between the silver brushes and delicate powders lay the only thing I had left of my mother.

The hairpin.

A single blue stone set within intricate silver branches. Delicate, yet unyielding. Just like her. Just like I wanted to be.

I reached for it, my fingers trembling, and turned it over in my palm. Cool to the touch. Grounding. A reminder that I was more than a transaction. More than my father’s bargaining piece.

Slowly, I lifted it to my hair, sliding it into place just above the twist. A final act of defiance. A silent prayer.

Give me strength, Mother.

I exhaled, long and slow, before looking at the guard.

“I’m ready.”

This time, my voice didn’t waver.

And with that, I walked toward my fate.

Meeting the Groom

The halls were quieter than I expected. No hurried footsteps. No whispered gossip from the maids. Just an eerie silence stretching between the steady clack of my heels against the marble.

Two guards flanked me. Not an escort. A delivery.

At the base of the grand staircase, my father waited. Hands clasped behind his back. His expression unreadable. He did not look at me until I reached the final step.

For a moment, we simply stared at each other.

The same man who had once lifted me onto his shoulders. Who had taught me how to hold a pen. Who had kissed my forehead goodnight.

And the same man who had sold me.

Something flickered in his gaze. Guilt? Hesitation?

I wanted to believe it.

Then he extended his arm. Businesslike. Expectant.

It didn’t matter. Whatever remorse lingered in his eyes, his actions had already spoken louder.

I swallowed hard and took his arm.

No words passed between us as he led me through the doors.

And they were waiting.

A sea of unfamiliar faces, all dressed in black and deep jewel tones. Their hushed conversations died as I stepped forward. I tried as much as possible not to look at their faces.

The atmosphere was thick with an ominous aura, one that screams power, even the blind would see that the seated people weren't ordinary people.

My father’s grip tightened. The cold stone beneath my feet made every step heavier.

Then, I saw him.

A figure at the end of the aisle.

Tall. Dressed in black. Still as stone.

Watching. Waiting.

And when I met his gaze, I understood why no one spoke of him.