I sat there for a moment, my breath uneven, my palms clammy against the sheets. The dream clung to me like smoke, refusing to lift. These memories had never left me. They haunted my sleep, twisting into nightmares, and resurfacing everything I had tried to bury. The more they returned, the deeper they carved into me, leaving scars no one could see but me.
I thought about that as the voices outside faded into laughter. My body was here—in this room, on this day—but my mind still lingered in the gravel, still choked on dust.
Time blurred, and before I knew it, I was before my mother. Her fingers smoothed the fabric, then clutched it tight as if reluctant to let go. The faint scent of camphor clung to her clothes, familiar and jarring all at once. When her gaze lifted, it struck me—soft, fragile—as though she feared I might shatter. Each clasp she fastened felt less like clothing and more like armor she was strapping onto me.
The mirror before me caught the scene—the beautiful bride I was becoming, radiant in lace and light; the child my mother still saw, tender and fragile beneath her careful hands; the woman I appeared to be—composed, graceful, whole. It was all there in the reflection. The mirror did not lie, but it did not tell the whole truth.
I stood before it, the veil cascading down my face in folds of white lace. Delicate, almost fragile to the touch, yet weighing on me like a burden I could not shrug off. The world beyond its thin threads blurred into shadows and muted colors. My face was hidden, even from myself.
"Hold still," my mother said, her fingers tugging the edge of the fabric. She smiled, but her eyes betrayed something else—something heavy, something she never spoke of. "You look just like I did when I first wore it."
Her words lingered. You first wore it… not just once, but multiple times? I wanted to ask, but her hand tightened on my shoulder, silencing my questions.
The whisper lingered, faint yet deliberate, curling against my ear until I could no longer tell if it came from the veil or from within me. A weight pressed down on me. I tore my hand back and pressed it against my heart.
The veil was not silent. It never had been.
And in that moment, I understood—it was never meant to shield me from the world. It was meant to bind me to it.
"Do you, Jaxon, take her to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the pastor's voice rang out, steady and commanding.
"I do," he said. The words hung in the air like a seal, a promise. Then all eyes turned to me.
"And do you, Brianna, take him…?" I opened my mouth, the veil brushing my lips, and for a moment a hollow ache spread through me.
"Yes," I whispered. "I do."
The crowd erupted in applause, music swelling as though heaven itself had descended. His eyes held mine—steady, unflinching—his smile unfolded, as if meant only for me. My lips curved in answer, a small tremor in the corners before they steadied. My chin lifted, my breath caught, then eased. Around us, the church seemed to blur, faces and colors dissolving into a haze. For a heartbeat, there was only him and me. Together, we looked like perfection.
I longed for this marriage more than I had ever longed for anything else in my life, with every beat of my heart, hoping to believe in love again. I dreamt of stepping into a new life, one free of shadows that had haunted me for so long. But trauma does not loosen its grip simply because one wills it to. Even as I stood there, trembling yet resolute, ready to be his wife, every part of me—the fearful, hopeful, aching parts—craved it desperately, ached for it, and clung to it like a fragile lifeline in the storm of my past.
From the first moment I saw Jaxon, something in me shifted. It was at a gala I almost didn't attend—he crossed the room like the world parted for him, yet his eyes found only me. His smile wasn't polished or practiced; it was quiet, meant for me alone. And in that instant, I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years. That was all it took. One glance, one smile, and I was his.
Jaxon is the golden son, heir to an empire that stretches across America. His father, Richard Jackson, built Argentum Global Holdings—a company so vast its influence seeps into every corner of the States: finance, tech, oil, even politics. Richard sits at the helm with a grip so unshakable, the entire market waits for his word.
Jaxon, his only son, carries the weight of that legacy with an effortless ease. He moves through the world like someone born already crowned, yet his presence is calm rather than commanding. There is a quiet certainty about him, a steady intelligence that draws attention without demanding it, a warmth in his gaze that makes you feel seen even in a crowd. He listens as though every word matters, smiles as though every moment was considered, and exudes a charm that is both natural and magnetic. The Jackson name bends boardrooms, draws envy, and silences rivals—but Jaxon tempers the weight of it with patience, wit, and a disarming humility that few expect from someone his stature.
But me? I have no empire. No name written in glass towers. My life has been quieter, simpler, stitched together by ordinary days that never made headlines. I am not ashamed of where I come from, but beside Jaxon, I sometimes feel like a shadow standing in sunlight too bright for me.
And yet, he loved me—not the heiresses, not the polished daughters of men his father dines with—but me. He looks at me like I am enough, already his equal, even when the world reminds me I am not. Perhaps that should kill my doubts. Perhaps love should drown out fear. But Jaxon is too perfect—too steady, too flawless. And perfection unsettles me, because I have seen it before. My father wore the same mask, smiling in public, admired by all, until the night the mask cracked and the monster bared its teeth.
Those are my fears—that one day Jaxon's smile may harden into my father's, that one day the warmth I lean on may turn cold. Everyone else calls him the promise of light. But I know light always casts shadows. And I fear mine may be waiting for me in him.
The church doors burst open, and we were carried out on a tide of applause and music. Rice pelted us like tiny white stars, petals rained from eager hands, voices rose in one joyous wave. "Mr. and Mrs. Jackson!" someone shouted, and the crowd echoed, their happiness spilling over us like a blessing I could almost touch.
The car waited, sleek and black, polished so brightly it caught the sun. Jaxon's hand gripped mine again, steady, guiding me through the sea of cheers. Smiles blurred past me—faces shining, cameras flashing, laughter bursting into the air until the whole street pulsed with celebration.
Inside the car, the world softened. The door closed, muting the roar outside, but the echo of their joy still clung to the windows. My veil lay across my lap, the lace trembling with every breath I took. Jaxon sat beside me, his arm draped along the backseat, his presence unshaken.
"Look at them," he said quietly, nodding toward the glass as the car pulled away. Children chased after us, their small hands waving, their voices carrying our names. Women clapped, men raised their arms in cheer—the whole community poured itself into that fleeting moment of joy.
I smiled, because that was what was expected. But inside, I froze, every muscle taut. The weight of their happiness pressed against me, fragile yet suffocating, as though I had been entrusted with something I could not promise to keep. The pressure to be their perfect bride burrowed deep into my bones, sweet and crushing, and I wondered if they would still cheer for me if they glimpsed the cracks beneath my skin.
The ride blurred in laughter and movement, the city flashing past in a rush of color and noise, until at last the gates loomed ahead—tall, iron, crowned with gold. Argentum Estate. The Jackson home. The car slowed, and the driver leaned into the horn.
The gates swung wide, like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. We had arrived.