The dress was beautiful.
A lace and silk work of art, hand-precision embroidered and shining in the golden light of the banquet hall. It was perfection on me, cinched in at the waist, cascading in waves to the floor. The veil, light as gossamer, set off my face, and I was the very picture of a radiant bride.
But I wasn't.
I was a captive.
I gripped the edge of the vanity, breathing in through the constriction in my chest. The face in the mirror wasn't mine—it was a ghost. A woman dressed for a future she hadn't chosen.
The door groaned shut behind me.
“You’re beautiful.”
James.
I caught his eye in the mirror, not bothering to turn. “And yet, I’ve never felt uglier.”
He moved in, slow and deliberate, his face inches from my own. “That’s a pity,” he breathed, sweeping a lock of hair
