Marriage was not supposed to feel like a death sentence.
They told me I was lucky.
Lucky to be chosen.
Lucky to marry into power.
Lucky to become a Blackwell.
No one asked if I wanted to be chosen.
The mirror reflected a woman dressed
like a sacrifice—white silk, delicate lace, a crown heavier than it looked. My mother stood behind me, adjusting the clasp of my necklace with hands that were steady, practiced, and utterly loveless.
"Irene would have looked softer in
this shade," she said casually, as though she weren't speaking about her own daughter.
I said nothing. I had learned long ago that silence was safer than asking to be seen.
Across the room, my younger sister hovered near the door, her eyes wet, her hands clenched together. Irene was beautiful in the way the world loved—warm, glowing, cherished. She looked at me as if she wanted to apologize for being chosen less, for being loved more.
I smiled at her.
That was my role. To reassure everyone else.
"You will behave," my mother continued. "The Blackwells are not forgiving people."
As if forgiveness had ever lived in this house.
My father entered then, straight-backed and satisfied, already dressed like a man who had won something precious. He did not look at my face—only at my reflection, as if I were an investment finally paying off.
"Lucien Blackwell has agreed," he said. "That alone elevates us."
Agreed.
Not proposed.
Not desired.
Agreed.
The name settled into my chest like a slow bruise.
Lucien Blackwell.
I had heard the whispers. Everyone had.
They said he was cold.
They said he killed without hesitation.
They said when he walked into a room, men forgot how to breathe.
And when he was angry…
I didn't let myself finish that thought.
The ceremony was brief. Efficient. Power did not like delays.
I met him at the altar.
Lucien Blackwell did not look like a devil. That was the first lie the world told.
He was tall, immaculately dressed, his dark hair brushed back with careless precision. His face was sharp, handsome in a way that felt dangerous—not inviting. His eyes were darker than I expected. Not empty. Just… guarded. Like doors locked from the inside.
He did not smile when he saw me. He did not frown either.
He looked at me the way one examines a blade - checking for flaws, weight, usefulness.
When the vows were spoken, his voice was calm, deep, unwavering.
"I do."
Two words. No emotion.
When it was my turn, my throat tightened.
"I do," I whispered.
The ring slid onto my finger like a chain.
Applause followed. Polite. Controlled. Strategic.
Lucien did not touch me when it was over. Not until we were alone.
His hand wrapped around my wrist—not tight, not gentle. Just enough to remind me that I belonged somewhere else now. He guided me into the waiting car without a word.
The door shut. Silence swallowed us whole.
The city lights blurred past the window. My hands folded neatly in my lap, hiding the tremor in my fingers.
"You don't have to pretend," he said suddenly.
I turned to him.
"Pretend what?"
"That this was your choice."
Something about the way he said it—flat, almost bitter—made my chest ache.
"I know," I replied softly.
For the first time, his eyes shifted fully to me. They searched my face. Not my body. Not my dress. My eyes.
A long pause.
"Good," he said. "Then we understand each other."
The car moved deeper into the night.
And somewhere between the glow of streetlights and the weight of his presence, I realized something terrifying—
I had not married a monster.
I had married a man the world was afraid of.
And fear, I would soon learn, always had a reason.