Elena Hart's hands trembled as she adjusted the delicate lace of her wedding gown, smoothing imaginary wrinkles that weren't there. The mirror reflected the perfect bride: hair pinned neatly, makeup flawless, a smile carefully practiced over weeks of preparation. Yet inside, her chest felt hollow, as if the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving a cold, empty echo where excitement should have been.
This isn't right.
Her fingers lingered on the pearl buttons of her dress, tracing the path she had dreamed about since she was a little girl. Ever since she was young, she imagined a wedding full of laughter, love, and warmth. A life with someone who would hold her hand through storms and celebrate every mundane, beautiful moment.
Except, now…none of that felt real.
The wedding hall buzzed with anticipation. Guests laughed and whispered, champagne glasses clinked, and somewhere in the background, a string quartet played a soft melody. Elena's parents hovered nearby, their smiles radiant, eyes shining with pride. Her mother's hands brushed her daughter's arm with the delicate nervousness of someone whose world revolved entirely around this day.
"Elena, you look stunning," her mother said, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "I can't believe my little girl is finally getting married."
Elena forced a smile, nodding politely. "Thank you, Mom." Her voice sounded too small, almost foreign to her own ears.
She wanted to speak the truth, to say, I'm not ready. I don't want this. I married the wrong man. But the words lodged stubbornly in her throat. She swallowed and reminded herself: today, she was Elena Hart, the perfect bride. Everything else could wait.
And then he arrived.
Damien Blackwood. Her husband. The man she had chosen—thought she knew—but who now seemed like a stranger standing at the end of the aisle.
He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, eyes hidden behind an expression that was equal parts calm and unreadable. Damien's smile was polite, practiced, almost rehearsed—like it belonged on a magazine cover rather than in a moment meant to be intimate and real.
Elena's pulse quickened—not from excitement, but from fear. Who is he really? she wondered, scanning the carefully chiseled features that had captivated her for months. The man she had imagined whispering sweet words in her ear now looked like someone she had never met.
The officiant cleared his throat, and the hall fell into an expectant hush. Elena's stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and dread as the familiar melody played, signaling the start of the ceremony.
"Ready?" Damien's voice was low, smooth, but cold. He extended his hand toward her.
Elena hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it. His grip was firm, controlled, and entirely lacking warmth. She should have felt comforted, reassured. Instead, a shiver ran down her spine. I married the wrong man, she thought again, the words echoing like a warning.
Her mind raced. She remembered the proposal—how Damien had smiled, charming and confident, whispering promises she wanted to believe. She remembered how easy it had been to fall for his perfection. But now, standing here, reality pressed down like a weight on her chest. His perfection was a mask, a carefully constructed illusion she had mistaken for love.
The ceremony began. Vows were spoken in soft, melodic tones, words about love, trust, and partnership that Elena repeated automatically. Her smile for the cameras felt brittle, forced, like glass threatening to shatter with every word. Every gaze from the guests, every photograph, felt like a reminder that she had made a life-altering mistake.
As they exchanged rings, her fingers brushed his. The touch was polite, almost clinical. No warmth. No electricity. Just cold metal and formal duty. A small part of her, the part that wanted to hope, whispered that maybe things would change. But her heart, sharp and insistent, knew better.
After the ceremony, the guests clapped, champagne flowed, and congratulations were exchanged. Elena moved through it all in a daze, smiling, nodding, and laughing politely. Her mother squeezed her hand, whispering, "I'm so proud of you, darling," unaware of the storm behind her daughter's eyes.
And then it happened—a tiny incident that should have been insignificant, but for Elena, it felt like the first crack in a fragile façade.
A cousin nudged her, whispering, "Have you noticed Damien barely smiled during the vows?"
Elena's stomach knotted. "I—" she stopped herself, unsure if she should answer. I noticed. I noticed everything. I just didn't want to believe it.
Across the hall, Damien conversed with her father in a low, serious tone, his expression unreadable. Every word he spoke seemed measured, deliberate. Elena caught glimpses of him laughing politely at jokes she couldn't hear, but the sound didn't reach his eyes. They remained cold, distant, locked behind a barrier she couldn't penetrate.
The reception began, and Elena drifted among the tables, smiling, listening, responding, all while her mind churned with fear and doubt. She replayed their relationship in snippets—first date, engagement, the proposal. Every memory now seemed tinged with deception. How could she have been so blind? How had she married a man she barely knew?
By the end of the evening, Elena found herself alone on the balcony, overlooking the twinkling city lights. The night air was cool, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady the storm of emotions.
"I married the wrong man," she whispered to herself, the words tasting bitter and final.
And as the moonlight glinted on Damien's dark figure approaching the balcony silently, Elena realized something even more terrifying: the wrong man wasn't just distant, cold, or mysterious. Sometimes, the wrong man could be dangerous—and she had no idea just how much he would change her life.