The Billionaire's Substitute Bride

Untitled Episode

When I was seven, I had the perfect wedding planned out. It was going to be in a castle, big and imposing, but for that day, it would be less intimidating to prepare for my wedding. Flowers adorn every inch of it. I will ride in a unicorn or a carriage. I will wear a big and puffy ballgown, and a tiara will adorn my head. All my friends will be princesses, and it will be like a ball. Classical music, chocolate fountains, a tower of sweets, and more food than you can eat. Finally, a lovely orchestra that plays a tear-inducing song as my father walks me down the aisle. My prince who swept me off my feet will be there, gazing lovingly at me. We seal the vow of our eternal love with a kiss.

Obviously, as I grew older, I realized it won’t be like that. I still expected to be floating on clouds, though; this, however, has me feeling like death, and I have not even made it to the hall. Four f*****g hours, for hair, makeup, and the dress. What?

I never knew getting married to a billionaire would drain me this much. Apparently, there will be a paid paparazzi there to document this s**t, and I need to look “camera-ready”. What the f**k did I get into?

I stood in front of the big mirror and stared at myself. My black hair was pulled into some sort of updo, with diamonds placed strategically in it. I was told it was real. My makeup looked natural, surprising considering how many products were used. The dress hugged my figure well, but it was not me. Makes sense because it was picked by Trina.

The dress was white. And by white, I mean painfully Trina. Satin, off-the-shoulder, with enough lace to make me look like a Victorian ghost in a Vogue photoshoot. I let it slide over my shoulders, careful not to wrinkle the fabric, careful not to wrinkle my entire soul in the process.

I never thought I would be getting married two months ago, but here I am now, about to walk down the aisle.

What am I doing? This is not for me, this is for Tina. Why am I here?

I could feel my heart pound violently in my chest, my hands trembled, and my breath came out in short, rapid breaths.

I can’t do this.

My eyes darted around the room as the reality of what I was doing settled on me. I need to get out of here. My throat choked up.

*knock* *knock*

“Who is it?” My voice came out in barely a whisper. It is by the grace of God that the person on the other side heard me.

“It is almost time for you to walk down the aisle, Toni.” I heard my dad’s gruff voice behind the door.

Okay, Toni, you can’t escape this. Suck it up.

I reminded myself why I was here. My gallery. My art. My leverage. I swallowed the resentment and squared my spine. I grabbed the bouquet. Roses, all white with specks of blush. I held it like a shield and sighed. This was it.

I walked out to my dad, waiting patiently. The walk to the hall was dead silent. The marriage took place in Los Angeles in one of Dylan’s mansions. It had a large hall, and as I stood at the doors of it, it looked more intimidating than anything I had ever faced.

My father patiently waited for me to gather myself. I took a deep breath, and my eyes fluttered.

I am ready.

“I never thought you would get married first.” My dad smiled at me.

“Me neither.”

The doors opened. Guests, glimmering in silk and champagne, turned toward us as we walked down the aisle. The lighting caught the shimmer of the gown, the diamonds in my hair, and for a moment, I felt untouchable. Music swelled, the air thick with floral arrangements, whispers, and the faint click of shoes against polished marble.

At the front, Dylan stood. Suit immaculately tailored, posture perfect, eyes scanning me like he was cataloging the real me beneath the illusion. My pulse quickened. I smiled. Polite. Composed. Fake.

Flash. Another flash. Not chaotic, not aggressive. Controlled. The paparazzi weren’t like the usual vultures. He was on payroll—Dylan’s man. Every click of his camera was measured, deliberate. He knew exactly what story Dylan wanted to be told: glamour, perfection, the narrative neatly packaged. I caught his eye briefly; he gave a subtle nod. Just doing his job. No frenzy. No chaos. Just… precision.

I met Dylan’s gaze again. His expression was neutral, but there was something unreadable in it. Respect? Curiosity? Something beyond the contract, beyond the image, beyond the charade. My fingers flexed at my sides, clinging to the moment.

The vows passed in a blur. Words, smiles, hand-squeezes. I was present, but also observing—every camera angle, every gesture, every whispered remark. When the officiant pronounced us married, the room erupted in polite applause. Flash. Click. Another. The paid paparazzi captured only what Dylan wanted, nothing more, nothing less. The world would see perfection, not deception.

Outside, the blacked-out limo waited. Its glossy surface reflected the twinkling lights of the city. I slid inside, the silk of the dress brushing against the leather seat. Dylan followed, and the door closed behind us with a soft click that felt like the sealing of a contract, a promise, a secret kept between us.

The engine hummed, the city lights blurred past. I exhaled. I was Toni, an artist, observer, strategist — dragged into a journey. And this ride? Just the beginning.