The chandeliers of the Hale ballroom glittered like a thousand stars, their light spilling across polished marble floors and golden drapes. Musicians played softly, filling the air with violins and piano. Every seat was filled, the room brimming with businessmen, socialites, and extended family. It was supposed to be the wedding of the season—an unshakable union between two powerful families.
But as the bridal march began, a strange tension cut through the air.
Murmurs rose like an invisible wave as the bride entered.
"That… that's not Elena, is it?"
"I thought Richard Hale's eldest daughter was the one marrying Marcus."
"Why is Clara walking down the aisle?"
The whispers darted from table to table, but no one dared say them too loudly. The Hale family commanded too much respect—and too much fear.
Clara knew the eyes on her weren't admiration but confusion. Still, she glided forward with the poise of a queen, her lips curled in the sweetest of smiles. The white satin gown shimmered as she walked, the train trailing like a river of silk behind her. To her, this was victory, not scandal. She lifted her chin high, savoring the spotlight that was never meant to be hers.
At the altar, Marcus stood waiting, handsome in his tailored tuxedo, smugness painted across his features. He glanced at Clara with approval, as though they were partners in crime—and they were.
The priest began the vows, voice booming in the silent hall.
"Do you, Marcus, take Clara Hale to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Marcus's grin widened. "I do."
"And do you, Clara, take Marcus to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Clara's lashes fluttered coyly. "I do."
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Marcus seized Clara and kissed her full on the lips, deep and unashamed. The crowd clapped politely, though the sound was awkward, subdued. Guests exchanged uneasy glances, their thoughts unspoken. This wasn't what they came to witness. The bride had changed, but the families were too powerful to question.
Still, beneath the applause, the murmurs lingered like smoke.
Hidden in the shadows of the mezzanine above the ballroom, Elena clutched the railing with trembling fingers. Her whole body felt hollow, her heart torn to shreds as she watched the scene below.
That dress.
That altar.
That kiss.
It should have been her.
Her throat burned with unshed sobs. She bit down on her lip until it bled, desperate to keep quiet, desperate not to collapse and draw eyes to herself. Every clap from the crowd was a hammer against her chest. Every smile from Clara was another knife twisting in her wounds.
How could they?
Her father had looked at her like she was filth. Marcus—her Marcus—had accused her without hesitation. And Clara… Clara had stolen everything with a smile.
Her vision blurred as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She pressed a shaking hand against her stomach, the dull ache between her thighs a brutal reminder of what had been stolen from her.
Who was he? The man last night? The faceless shadow still haunted her—rough hands, burning lips, a voice rasping against her skin. She didn't even know his name. And yet, he had taken the last piece of herself she'd tried so hard to protect.
She dug her nails into her palm until they drew blood. I curse you, she thought savagely. Whoever you are, wherever you are… I curse you. May you feel this ruin in your bones.
"Elena."
The soft voice broke through her spiral. A gentle hand touched her arm.
She turned, startled, to find Anna—her childhood friend, her only true ally—standing there with wide, worried eyes.
"Elena, oh my God…" Anna's voice cracked at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "You shouldn't be here. You can't watch this."
"I… I can't breathe, Anna," Elena whispered, her voice broken. "They all hate me. My father—he looked at me like I wasn't his daughter. And Clara—" Her words dissolved into sobs.
Anna pulled her into her arms, holding her tight as Elena's body shook with grief. "Don't waste your tears on them. You don't deserve this. Come with me—please. We'll get you out of here."
"I have nothing left," Elena choked. "Nothing…"
"Yes, you do," Anna insisted fiercely, her grip tightening. "You still have me. And I'll never leave you."
With trembling legs, Elena let herself be led away. Anna guided her out of the hotel's side exit, into the quiet street where the sound of applause was muffled by heavy doors. Elena turned once, glancing back through tear-blurred eyes.
Inside, Clara was laughing, basking in stolen glory.
Elena lowered her head, the taste of betrayal bitter on her tongue.
Far away from the wedding hall, in a skyscraper office with glass walls overlooking the city, Adrian Cole stood in front of his desk, suit jacket tossed carelessly aside. His sharp jaw was tight, his expression cold as steel.
The CEO had been in meetings since dawn, and though he didn't show it, fatigue pressed against his shoulders. Numbers, contracts, board members—they were easier to deal with than emotions. Easier than people.
His phone buzzed.
"Did you get her details?" His voice was clipped, no warmth, no patience.
On the other end of the line, his younger brother Ethan chuckled. "Details? Oh, you mean your little adventure last night?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "Don't test me, Ethan."
"Oh, come on," Ethan drawled, leaning back in his chair somewhere across town, his tie already loose, a glass of whiskey in his hand though it wasn't even noon. "The great Adrian Cole, the ice king himself, finally admits he had a woman in his bed. I nearly fainted when I heard. Thought you were… you know."
"Enough." Adrian's voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
But Ethan laughed anyway. "No need to get defensive, brother. I'm just impressed. After years of avoiding every woman in the city, suddenly you couldn't keep your hands off one? Must've been… fiery." His tone dipped, teasing, almost wicked.
Adrian's grip tightened around the phone. A flicker of something—unwanted, unfamiliar—crossed his mind. The taste of her lips. The way she clung to him like she needed him to breathe. The fire in her tears before she'd passed out in his arms.
"Shut up, Ethan. Find her."
There was silence, then a low whistle from the other end. "You actually mean it." Ethan leaned forward, grin tugging at his lips. "This isn't just about some nameless girl, is it? You want her. And when Adrian Cole wants something…"
Adrian cut him off, voice low and dangerous. "She's not just 'something.' She's mine."
Ethan raised a brow, though his brother couldn't see it. He'd never heard Adrian speak like this before. Possession. Obsession. It stirred a spark of curiosity in him.
"Well, then," Ethan said lightly, though his mind was already racing. "Guess I'll play detective. But don't blame me if she prefers my company when I find her."
The line went dead before Ethan could laugh again.
Adrian stood there, phone in hand, jaw clenched. For a moment, the mask slipped—the cold CEO replaced by a man haunted by the memory of a woman whose name he didn't even know.
His fists curled.
He didn't care who she was, what her story might be.
He only knew one thing.
He would find her.
And when he did, she would never escape him again.
By the time Ethan finally strolled into the hotel, the chaos of the morning wedding had already settled. Guests were gone, the music had faded, and the hall was a battlefield of confetti, empty champagne glasses, and broken expectations.
He adjusted his cufflinks lazily as he walked in, the kind of man who carried charm like a weapon. His smile was careless, his dark eyes scanning the space with interest.
"Boss told me to fetch a ghost," he muttered to himself, amusement curling on his lips. "Let's see what kind of woman made Adrian Cole lose his mind for the first time."
At the reception desk, a nervous attendant explained what little she knew. A bride had vanished, a scandal had shaken both families, and in the end, the wedding had gone on—only with a different bride.
Ethan arched a brow. "Interesting."
But as he turned, something caught his eye.
Across the wide lobby, near the revolving glass doors, a small figure hurried out with another woman by her side. She was pale, trembling, her eyes swollen as though she had been crying for hours. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair falling loose, but there was something about her… something raw, broken, and striking all at once.
Ethan froze, watching.
The girl clutched her friend's hand tightly, as if it were the only thing holding her together. The world seemed too heavy for her shoulders, but she walked anyway, leaving behind whatever hell had trapped her inside that hotel.
His smirk faltered.
For the first time, Ethan didn't feel like teasing. Something about her fragile defiance—her silent storm—pulled at him.