Fake Wedding Dress

The Mask Behind the Viel

The smell of alcohol from the makeup remover and the sharp, pungent scent of high-end perfume stung Aluna’s senses, nearly making her gag. Under the glaring neon lights of the hotel dressing room, her face became a canvas for three professionals who moved with robotic precision. They spoke little, only murmuring occasionally about cheek contours or eyeshadow gradients.

"Don't move, Miss Alika. This eyeliner must be perfectly sharp," one of the stylists whispered in a tone that sounded more like a command than a request.

Aluna gripped the edges of the velvet chair. Every brushstroke felt like a scrape that erased her identity bit by bit. She looked into the mirror, but the reflection staring back was a stranger. Her eyes, which usually radiated softness, were now forced into a sharp and haughty gaze by the bold makeup. Her pale lips were coated in a deep, blood-red lipstick, Alika’s favorite shade, which Aluna had always hated for looking far too aggressive.

"Finished," the hairstylist muttered while generously applying hairspray, locking Aluna’s hair into a stiff, modern bun.

Aluna stood up, feeling the weight of the wedding gown begin to burden her shoulders and waist. The silk was cold against her skin, while the thousands of pearl sequins dangling across the chest felt like a suffocating suit of armor. She stepped forward slowly, trying to adjust to the twelve-centimeter heels that made her feel unstable, both physically and mentally.

"The car is ready at the private lobby, Miss. Mr. Arka does not like to wait," the voice of a personal assistant she had just met, a flat-faced man in glasses named Dimas, broke the silence.

Aluna only nodded slowly, not daring to make a sound. She remembered Alika’s warning: Do not talk much. The real Alika always spoke in low, brief, and demanding tones. If you’re in doubt, just stay quiet and show your bored face.

The journey to the wedding venue took place in a stifling silence inside a soundproof limousine. Aluna stared at her hands, encased in white lace gloves, squeezing them to distract herself from the nausea rising in her throat. Outside the window, the lights of Jakarta appeared like an unreal stream of light, as if she were being carried toward another world with no exit.

The wedding location was not a grand church or a five-star hotel ballroom filled with thousands of guests. The car stopped at a private mansion on the outskirts of the city, heavily guarded by men in black uniforms. The building was modern minimalist, dominated by glass and concrete, looking cold and unfriendly under the cloudy night sky.

"There are only the priest, witnesses, and lawyers inside. Per Mr. Arka’s instructions, this wedding is entirely closed to the media," Dimas explained as he opened the car door for Aluna.

Aluna stepped out, letting her train drag across the polished marble floor. When the double doors of the main hall opened, the low temperature of the room immediately hit her. At the far end of the room stood a man with a rigid back, facing a large window that displayed a silent dry garden.

That was him. Arka Pradipta.

The man turned slowly at the sound of Aluna’s heels. Aluna held her breath. Arka wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that hugged his tall, athletic frame. His face had a sharp jawline and eyes like an eagle, yet they were void of any emotion. There was no smile, no spark of happiness, not even a hint of interest as he looked at the woman who would become his wife in mere minutes.

The aura of dominance Arka radiated was so strong that Aluna felt the oxygen around her suddenly thin. Every step she took toward him felt like a walk toward the gallows.

"On time," Arka’s voice sounded heavy, cold, and authoritative. He didn’t even look at Aluna’s face directly. His eyes were fixed on the platinum watch on his wrist. "Let’s get this over with."

The ceremony proceeded with painful speed. The priest leading the event seemed uncomfortable, reading the blessing in a rushed voice, as if he also wanted to escape the tension-filled room as quickly as possible. Aluna answered "I do" in a voice that was barely a whisper, while Arka said it in a flat tone, as if he were reading a company’s annual report.

When it came time to exchange rings, Arka’s large, cold hand touched Aluna’s fingers. Aluna trembled reflexively, nearly dropping the ring. Arka gave her a fleeting, sharp glare, a warning to remain calm, before sliding the white gold band onto Aluna’s ring finger without a trace of tenderness.

"It is finished," the priest said curtly.

There was no bridal kiss. There was no applause. Arka immediately turned toward a small table in the corner where several black leather folders were waiting. He pulled out a chair, sitting in a relaxed yet intimidating manner, and then motioned for Aluna to approach.

"Sign this," Arka said, pushing a document toward Aluna. "This is a supplementary addendum to the contract your assistant agreed upon. The main points are simple: no interference in each other’s private lives, no division of marital assets outside the contract value, and most importantly never expect anything more from this marriage."

Aluna picked up the pen with a hand that was still shaking. She skimmed the written points. Article 4, The Wife is not permitted to enter the Husband’s private quarters without permission. Article 7, Physical relations are conducted only if necessary for public image or upon prior written agreement.

A bitter taste spread across Aluna’s tongue. She felt like a piece of merchandise that had just been paid for in full. She signed the name 'Alika Putri', mimicking her twin’s signature which she had practiced hundreds of times at the hotel.

Arka closed the folder with a loud thud, making Aluna jump slightly. The man stood up, adjusting the buttons of his tuxedo, which were already perfectly aligned.

"Dimas will take you to your room," Arka said without looking into Aluna’s eyes. "I still have business at the office to finish tonight. Do not wait for me."

"But it’s our wedding night," the sentence slipped from Aluna’s lips before she could stop it. She didn't want Arka, of course not, but she was bewildered by the sheer abnormality of the situation.

Arka stopped in his tracks, turned halfway, and gave her a deeply cynical look, the kind of look that could wither one’s courage to the point of zero. "Wedding night? Don’t be naive, Alika. We both know why you are here. You get your money, I get my status. Do not ruin this deal with cheap romantic acting."

Without waiting for a response, Arka walked away. His footsteps echoed in the silent hall before disappearing behind the large doors.

Dimas approached, offering a polite gesture. "This way, Madam. I will take you upstairs."

Aluna followed the assistant in a daze. They took a crystal elevator to the third floor of the mansion. The hallways were lined with thick carpets that muffled all sound, with dim lighting that gave off a mysterious and chilling impression. Dimas stopped in front of a pair of beautifully carved dark oak doors.

"This is your bridal suite. All your needs have been prepared inside. If you need anything, use the intercom to contact the staff," Dimas said before bowing respectfully and leaving.

Aluna pushed the doors open. The room behind them was vast, perhaps the size of her parents’ entire house. There was a king-size bed with dark gray silk sheets, a seating area with leather sofas, and a balcony overlooking the city. However, despite its luxury, the room felt like an icy prison cell. There were no flowers, no wedding decorations, only a stifling silence.

Aluna walked to the large mirror in the corner. She began to remove the jewelry clinging to her body one by one, the diamond necklace, the earrings, and the small crown that felt like thorns on her head. She then turned, trying to reach the zipper of the wedding dress on her back, but her hands couldn’t reach it.

She struggled for several minutes until her breath grew ragged and tears began to well in her eyes. The frustration, fear, and loneliness culminated into one. She was in a luxury mansion, wearing clothes worth billions of rupiah, newly married to one of the richest men in the country, yet she felt poorer and more humiliated than when she had faced the debt collectors at her home.

Aluna finally gave up. She sat on the edge of the cold bed, letting her body slump to the floor. The grand white dress now looked wilted around her, like rotting flower petals.

She realized the most painful thing that night. Arka Pradipta, her husband, didn’t even have enough curiosity to simply look at his wife’s face. In Arka’s eyes, she was merely property, a mask behind a wedding veil that could be ignored once the contract was signed.

In the silence of the vast room, Aluna hugged her knees, letting her tears fall silently. She was alone in the lion’s den, and this exhausting charade had only just begun. She didn't know if she would be able to survive for six months, or if she would be crushed into dust under Arka Pradipta’s cold feet before that time came.

The city lights outside continued to flicker, but for Aluna, the night was an eternal darkness that would never end. She stared at the tightly closed door, realizing that no one was coming to save her. Her husband would not come. Her wedding night was not filled with love, but with the bitter truth that she had truly sold her soul for the survival of her family.