The dress fit perfectly.
It was the kind of gown women dreamed of silk satin that shimmered like starlight, a train that flowed endlessly behind her, and a veil so fine it could catch a whisper.
Isabelle Laurent stood before the mirror, her reflection gleaming under the golden lights of the bridal suite. Makeup artists fluttered around her, pinning curls, adjusting lace, misting perfume. Every detail was flawless. Every breath rehearsed.
"You look breathtaking," cooed her best friend and maid of honor, Clara, her voice trembling with genuine awe. "Daniel won't know what hit him."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "That's the point, isn't it?"
Clara frowned, pausing. "You don't sound excited."
Isabelle turned her gaze back to the mirror. "I'm nervous. That's all."
It was a lie.
Under the layers of silk and tulle, her chest ached with a heaviness she couldn't name. She had told herself for months that this wedding this life was what she wanted.
But staring into her reflection now, she barely recognized the woman looking back.
Her hair was styled perfectly, her lips tinted the soft rose shade Daniel had chosen for her, and around her neck gleamed the Whitford heirloom diamond.
It was beautiful.
It was suffocating.
Downstairs, the mansion buzzed with activity. Staff scurried about, photographers adjusted their lenses, and society's elite arrived in sleek black cars, ready to witness the union between Daniel Whitford the charming son of a real estate empire and Isabelle Laurent, the daughter of a fallen investor.
The gossip columns called it a modern-day fairy tale.
But Isabelle knew better.
It wasn't love that had brought them here. It was necessity.
Her father's company had collapsed two years ago, taking with it their fortune and reputation. The Whitfords had offered salvation an arranged engagement that would restore Laurent's name and tie the families in business. Daniel was polite, handsome, and perfectly calculated.
And from the moment he slipped that ring on her finger, Isabelle's freedom had vanished behind a golden cage.
Her father, Charles Laurent, entered the room then dapper in his tuxedo, his once-gray hair perfectly combed, though his hands trembled faintly.
"You're a vision, my dear," he said proudly. "The Laurents will rise again, thanks to you."
She forced a smile. "That's what we want."
He kissed her forehead, eyes glassy. "You've made me proud, Isabelle. Everything will be right after today."
Everything will be right.
The words struck her like a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.
When he left, Isabelle turned to the window. Outside, the world gleamed the gardens trimmed to perfection, the white chairs lined in rows, and the Whitford family crest hanging boldly above the altar.
Beyond the gates, she could see the faint blur of cameras. Paparazzi.
Her stomach twisted. They would capture every smile, every tear, every lie.
"Five minutes, Miss Laurent," said the wedding coordinator, poking her head in.
Isabelle nodded and turned toward Clara. "Can you get me some water?"
Clara hesitated but obeyed, slipping out of the room.
The moment she was gone, Isabelle sagged against the vanity, pressing her palms to her chest. The walls felt too close, her corset too tight.
She remembered the last conversation she'd had with Daniel two nights ago.
"Marriage isn't about feelings," he'd said, tone clipped as always. "It's about security. You'll have a good life, Isabelle. That should be enough."
That should be enough.
The words had stung.
She had tried to love him truly. She had tried to believe that affection could grow after marriage. But Daniel had grown colder with every passing month. He came home late. He ignored her questions. He treated her like a piece of property he'd already acquired.
And then, the text messages. The late-night calls he wouldn't explain.
The faint perfume that wasn't hers.
Clara had told her not to jump to conclusions. But deep down, Isabelle knew.
He wasn't just distant.
He was unfaithful.
And yet here she was about to walk down the aisle, wearing his family's diamond.
A knock sounded on the door. Isabelle straightened, expecting Clara.
Instead, a different voice came through. Low. Steady. Too familiar.
"Miss Laurent."
Her heart skipped. "Who"
The door opened, and in walked Sebastian Kane.
The air shifted.
He was everything Daniel wasn't rugged, composed, dangerous. Dark suit perfectly tailored, black hair brushed back from his sharp features, gray eyes glinting with quiet control.
"Mr. Kane?" she said, startled. "You shouldn't be here."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You're hard to reach these days."
"I'm about to be married."
"I know." His voice was calm, but something beneath it simmered frustration, maybe even anger. "That's why I came."
She blinked. "This is highly inappropriate."
"So is marrying a man who's been sleeping with his assistant."
Her blood froze. "What?"
He looked at her really looked at her and she saw no trace of mockery in his expression. Only truth. "You deserve to know. Daniel's been with Chloe for months. Everyone in the industry knows it."
Her throat went dry. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He pulled out his phone, scrolling before handing it to her. On the screen, a photo Daniel in a restaurant, hand resting intimately on a brunette's thigh.
The timestamp was from two nights ago.
Her stomach turned. "No."
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," Sebastian said quietly. "But you needed the truth before you make the biggest mistake of your life."
She wanted to scream. Cry. Deny it. But all she could do was stare at that picture the proof of everything she'd been afraid to admit.
"Why are you showing me this?" she whispered.
He hesitated, then said, "Because I care what happens to you."
Her eyes lifted sharply to his. "You hardly know me."
His jaw tightened. "That's what you think."
Something in his tone sent a chill through her. He stepped closer not threatening, but close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne, dark and grounding.
"You don't have to do this," he murmured. "You don't have to chain yourself to a man who doesn't see you."
She took a shaky step back. "And what then? Walk away? Let my father lose everything? Watch my family crumble again?"
His eyes softened. "There are other ways."
"No, there aren't," she said bitterly. "This is my life now."
"Then you're choosing to be miserable."
"Better miserable than ruined."
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.
Finally, he exhaled and said, "If you ever need a way out, Isabelle, find me."
Before she could answer, he turned and left the door closing softly behind him.
She stood frozen, the echo of his voice haunting her.
By the time Clara returned with the water, Isabelle had composed herself again or at least pretended to.
"Are you okay?" Clara asked gently.
"I'm fine," Isabelle said, forcing a smile. "Let's just get this over with."
But as she walked toward the ceremony hall, her legs felt like lead. Her father waited at the entrance, pride shining in his eyes. The music swelled. The crowd rose.
And in that moment, Isabelle wanted nothing more than to run.
The aisle stretched before her like a path to destiny or disaster.
Daniel stood at the altar, handsome and polished, every inch the perfect groom. When their eyes met, he smiled faintly but it was the smile of a man who already owned what he wanted.
Isabelle's fingers trembled on her bouquet.
The priest began to speak, his words fading into background noise. The world blurred the faces, the music, the perfection.
Until suddenly, she saw him.
Sebastian Kane.
Standing at the back of the room, half in shadow, hands in his pockets, watching her.
Her breath caught. He shouldn't have been there. But he was.
And for a split second, their eyes met and everything inside her shifted.
She could almost hear his voice again.
You don't have to do this.
Her heart pounded.
And somewhere deep down, she knew this was the beginning of her undoing.