The Bride Who Held Her breath
"Emily… talk to me," Damian's voice cracked the silence like thunder rolling across a still sea. "You've been quiet since morning. What's going on?"
Emily stood still, framed by the tall window. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, hugging herself like she could hold the broken pieces together. Sunlight spilled in, casting a soft halo around her, but she felt anything but angelic. Her breath trembled as she exhaled. Behind tired eyes, a storm raged.
"I owe you the truth, Damian," she finally said, her voice low—so low he almost missed it. "There was someone. A boyfriend. We were going to run away together."
Damian's eyebrows shot up, the silence between them stretching thin like glass.
"We had plans. Real plans," she continued, still watching the horizon like it could save her. "We mapped out cities, dreams, savings… we even picked out the name of our future dog." A short, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "And then, out of nowhere, he vanished from my life—and showed up on social media two weeks later, smiling next to her. They're getting married next month."
Damian blinked, stunned. Grateful it wasn't the News of their dad being in coma. He was amazed not just about the confession, but at the ache wrapped in every syllable.
"He told me he'd wait," she whispered. "Told me I was his home. I believed him. I held on when things got dark. He was supposed to be my way out. My beginning."
Her voice cracked, and Damian felt it like a blow to the chest.
"He made me feel like I mattered… like I wasn't just someone everyone expected to be strong all the time."
There was a pause. Thick. Uncomfortable.
"You were going to leave?" he finally asked, his voice low, laced with disbelief. "Without saying a word? After everything we've survived together? After Dad?"
"I was trying to save us," she said quickly, like she had rehearsed it a hundred times. "I didn't want to disappear forever. I thought I'd go, work, build something, and come back stronger. Then maybe I could pay for Dad's care… maybe I could fix what broke."
Damian's jaw clenched. "But you didn't tell me. You carried it alone—again."
His words struck a nerve. She flinched.
He stepped closer. "You're stronger than this, Emily. But right now? You're hurt. And I get it. You're tired of fighting battles no one sees. But running? It doesn't heal you. It just postpones the explosion."
Emily turned toward him slowly, her eyes glassy. "I don't even know who I am anymore."
"You're still my sister," he said, stepping forward and gently cupping her face. "The girl who never gave up. Not on me. Not on Dad. Not on anyone. And today? You're not just getting married. You're walking into the unplanned for, and I know you're scared, but you've never needed to be fearless to be powerful."
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Damian wiped it gently, like he had a thousand times when they were kids.
"Come on, Em. Put on your crown. Let the world see what royalty looks like when it's forged in fire."
The dressing room was a flurry of quiet luxury. The mistress moved with practiced grace, like a painter coaxing art from chaos. Every brushstroke of makeup, every tuck of fabric, was done with precision and reverence.
The transformation was breathtaking.
Emily sat still, silent as layers of ivory silk and lace were wrapped around her. Pearls shimmered at her neckline. Gold thread glinted in delicate embroidery. Her veil, soft as breath, framed her delicate features. She looked into the mirror and saw a stranger,beautiful, powerful, and aching.
Damian entered and froze. "You look like royalty."
She tried to smile. It came out faint.
But inside? Her stomach churned. Her heartbeat was a drumbeat of dread.
The hall was a masterpiece. Aisles lined with roses and diamonds. The floor polished to a mirror shine. Chandeliers spilled golden light like liquid from the ceiling.
As she walked down the aisle, her arm looped tightly around Damian's, murmurs of awe followed them like shadows.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
The music played. The crowd watched. But her thoughts screamed louder than any melody.
Why am I doing this?
Why does it feel like I'm marching to the edge of a cliff?
At the altar, Adrian waited. Regal in his custom tuxedo, seated in his sleek black wheelchair like a king on his throne. His expression was composed, his eyes locked onto her like she was the only one in the room.
She took her place beside him. Her hands trembled beneath the bouquet of diamonds and flowers.
The officiant smiled gently and opened his book.
"Dearly beloved…"
The ceremony began.
But Emily didn't respond.
The officiant's words hung in the air, unanswered.
He glanced up, confused. "Emily Jackson?"
Still, no answer. No movement.
Damian shifted beside her, with concerns clouding his features.
Adrian remained composed, but his jaw flexed, just slightly.
Whispers rustled through the crowd like does she even know what she want
s.
Why waste our time? Another guest from the crowd yelled.
Call off the wedding!