The afternoon sun didn't feel like warmth; it felt like a spotlight she hadn't asked for.

Aria sat on the edge of the chaise, the blush velvet scratching faintly against her bare arms. The gown pooled around her feet—satin and structure, elegant lines that belonged to a woman she didn't recognize. She traced the seam of the skirt, her fingers numb.

In the gilt mirror propped against the wall, a stranger stared back. Hair pinned with terrifying precision. Lips painted a shade too dark for a Friday. The reflection looked composed, serene even.

It was a lie.

Behind her, Maya adjusted a flower near Aria's ear. Her touch was feather-light, but her eyes, caught in the glass, were heavy.

"You don't look like a bride," Maya said softly.

Aria's mouth twitched. "What does a bride look like?"

"Like she's waiting for something to begin."

Aria looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. "Maybe I'm mourning what just ended."

Maya's hands stilled. She stepped back, the rustle of her dress loud in the sudden vacuum of the room.

"Then why the hell are you doing this, Aria? If it hurts this much—walk away."

"And go where?" Aria asked, the words scraping her throat. "The press is outside. My parents are out there, holding their breath. His parents are waiting for a resolution." She turned to look at Maya, her eyes dry and burning. "If I walk, the storm doesn't stop. It just destroys everyone else."

"You care about him," Maya argued, though her voice wavered. "I've seen the way you look at him—"

"And he looks at me like a problem he has to solve."

The truth of it settled between them, colder than the air conditioning. Aria stood up, the dress heavy, dragging at her stride.

"I'm not doing this because I want to," she whispered. "I'm doing it because it's the only way to make the noise stop. I can be his shield. Even if to him, I was never what he was to me."

A knock rapped against the door—sharp, efficient.

Maya flinched. She squeezed Aria's shoulder once—hard—before stepping back. "I'll wait outside."

The door clicked shut.

Aria turned back to the mirror. The girl in the glass wasn't waiting for a beginning. She was dressing for a funeral.

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The room smelled of hairspray and stale anxiety.

Reyhaan stood at the threshold, the ring box heavy in his pocket. He shouldn't be here—it was bad luck, or bad form, or whatever the tradition dictated—but he couldn't breathe in the hallway anymore.

Aria stood by the window. The light outlined her profile, sharp and delicate. He had memorized her face in softer moments. Here, she looked like a statue carved from something breakable.

He took a step inside. The floorboard creaked.

She turned. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, a wall slamming down behind her gaze.

"So," she said, her voice thin. "The knight arrives. No sword. No plan."

He winced, the sting catching him off guard. He had never heard her like that—her sharp edges turned on him.

"I wanted to talk. Before we go out there."

"Talk?" She laughed, a brittle sound that cracked the air. "Now? You had days, Reyhaan. But you chose silence. You gave me nothing but that."

"I thought silence was safer," he admitted, his voice rough. "I didn't want to say the wrong thing."

"And look where that got us." She gestured to the dress, to the room, to the trap they were both standing in. "You decided my life for me. You said 'yes' without even looking at me."

"I did it to protect you."

"Safe," she spat the word. "Is that what this is? Being locked into a marriage I didn't ask for? Being your... responsibility?"

The word hit him like a physical blow. Responsibility.

Is that what she thought?

He stepped closer, needing her to understand. "It's not just that. You know it's not."

"Do I?" Her eyes were wet now, bright with anger and humiliation. "Because it feels like you fell on a grenade to save the PR. And now I'm the shrapnel."

He pulled the velvet box from his pocket. He set it on the stool between them. It looked small. Insignificant.

"I chose this," he said, his voice shaking with the effort to keep it steady. "I chose you. Not because of the press. But because I couldn't let you be destroyed."

Aria's gaze flickered to the stool.

"You didn't choose me," she whispered. "You chose damage control."

Her fingers brushed on the box's edge first—hesitant—before closing around the velvet and opening it. The ring glinted—cold, metal, final.

"Do you know what it feels like," she said, not looking at him, "to walk into a marriage knowing you're nothing but a weight around someone's neck?"

Reyhaan wanted to grab her shoulders, shake her, and say, You are the only thing that anchors me. But the look on her face stopped him. She looked exhausted. Defeated.

"It's temporary," he lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe it was a prayer. "You'll understand someday—"

"I don't know if I can understand," she said dully. "Or forgive. Or even be near you... like before."

He opened his mouth to object, to insist she was wrong, that this had never been about damage control at all, but stopped. He knew better. If he pushed now, she would shatter.

So he backed away. The door handle was cold under his palm. He had come here to comfort her, and instead, he had reminded her of the cage.

He left her standing in the golden light, holding the ring like it was a weapon she was afraid to use.

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The hallway stretched out, a tunnel of polished wood and lilies.

Aria's heels clicked against the tiles, a staccato rhythm that seemed too loud for the hushed corridor. Her hand gripped the ring box so hard the velvet pile was flattened against her palm.

"Breathe," Kian murmured, his arm linking through hers. "You're turning blue."

"Does it matter?" she asked, voice distant, hollow.

"It matters to me." He stopped, turning her to face him. His eyes were kind, worried. "You don't have to do this. We can run. My car is out back."

For a second, the image flared in her mind—running into the rain, escaping the suffocating scent of flowers. But then she thought of her parents in the front row. Of Reyhaan's parents, waiting. Of Reyhaan himself, standing at the altar of his own making.

"I can't run," she said.

"Then just step," Kian said. "One foot. Then the other."

She looked at the door at the end of the hall. It loomed large, white, and final.

"It feels like a performance," she whispered.

"Then act," Kian said. "Play the part until the curtain comes down."

She nodded, the motion stiff. She was good at editing. She could edit herself into this scene. Could cut out the panic and splice in composure.

She drew a breath that didn't quite fill her lungs and took a step.

The room dissolved into a blur of whites and golds. Fabric arched from the ceiling, catching the glitter of fairy lights, while the chandelier cast surreal, fractured reflections on the polished floor.

Faces turned as she entered—a sea of eyes. Her parents. His parents. The band. The press, lurking in the back like vultures.

Keep moving, she commanded her legs. Don't let them see the crack in the glass.

She didn't look at them.

She looked at him.

Reyhaan stood beneath the draped arch. Stark in black and white against the pale fabric, he looked steady, immovable, like a cliff face she was about to crash against.

But his hands were curled into fists at his sides.

He watched her come down the aisle. He didn't smile. Didn't look relieved. Instead, he looked wrecked.

And for the first time that day, her anger wavered.

He was trapped here too.

She reached the front. Kian squeezed her hand once, hard, before letting go.