The wedding gown felt like a noose.
Aria Lin stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, the whispers behind her louder than the orchestra. Her heels dug into the polished marble floor, but she didn't move. Couldn't.
He wasn't coming.
Again.
She stared at the empty altar, cloaked in fresh orchids and blood-red roses—Lucien Blackthorne's signature. Everything had been arranged to perfection. The media was outside. The elite of the city inside. The bride present.
The groom? Nowhere to be seen.
She swallowed, pushing down the wave of humiliation rising in her throat. Her spine remained straight, chin lifted. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her crack.
"Poor thing. Abandoned on her wedding day."
"Did you hear? He didn't even attend the engagement party either."
"Maybe she's just a pawn."
Yes, she was. And she knew it.
But pawns could become queens.
The heavy double doors creaked open behind her.
Every head turned.
In walked the man she had married on paper five hours ago.
Lucien Blackthorne.
Tall, tailored in midnight black, and colder than the ice in his stare. He didn't offer an apology. He didn't look at her. He simply walked past her, took the microphone from the officiant, and said:
"The ceremony is over. This marriage is done."
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Aria's hands curled into fists beneath the silk of her gown. She forced her voice out—calm, sharp, and cutting.
"Correction," she said, stepping forward. "The wedding is over. The marriage, Mr. Blackthorne, has only just begun."
Finally, he looked at her.
And she saw it—the flicker of surprise. Brief. Gone.
But it was there.
She smiled. Beautiful, fearless, and defiant.
Let the games begin.
___