fate

When Gregor pushed open the door to my father's study, I found him seated at his desk, fingers interlocked, eyes heavy with something that looked like disappointment—but beneath it, something else flickered. Was it guilt?

"I hoped you wouldn't be foolish enough to try this, Alina."

I swallowed hard. "I—"

"Sit."

I hesitated. He barely raised his eyes to me, yet the weight of his words crushed my resolve. Slowly, I lowered myself into the chair across from him.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then he sighed.

"You should know by now that running is useless."

I clenched my fists. "Then why lock me in this house? Why send men to guard me? If I have no choice, why all this effort?"

His gaze finally met mine. "Because it's my responsibility to ensure you go through with this."

I wanted to scream. Instead, I forced my voice to stay steady. "You're selling me."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.

And that silence—that quiet acceptance—made my stomach twist more than if he'd shouted at me.

His hand moved toward a folder on his desk. My name was on the first page. My heart pounded.

"Your life will change, Alina," he said, flipping it open. "But you'll have everything you need. Power. Influence. Protection."

Protection from what?

My nails dug into my palms. "And what if I say no?"

A pause. A slow, deliberate glance at Gregor, still standing at the door.

Then, my father looked at me and said, "Then you force my hand."

I knew what that meant. There were no threats needed. No screaming. The decision had already been made—I was just the last to accept it.

They locked me in my room after that.

Three days had passed, though it felt like an eternity. Three days of silence, of solitude, of being locked away like a prisoner in my own home. The door to my room remained shut, only opening briefly when my meals were left outside. Meals I barely touched.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache inside me.

Outside my window, guards stood at every post, their dark figures unmoving. Even in the garden below—where I had once stolen moments of peace—there was no escape. My father had made sure of that.

And now, it was the day.

The day I would be handed over to strangers.

The day I would disappear into the unknown.

Muted voices drifted through the walls—the shuffle of hurried feet, the murmurs of maids discussing final touches, the clinking of silverware as a grand feast was prepared. Not for me. For the spectacle.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.

I wanted to scream, to fight, to do something—anything—to stop this. But I had spent three days battering against an unmovable wall. My father had given his answer. My fate had been decided long before I ever thought to resist.

A knock at the door shattered the quiet.

I turned my head slightly but didn't answer.

The door creaked open, and for one foolish second, I wished—prayed—that it would be Nina. That she had somehow slipped past my father's ever-watchful eyes, sneaking in one last time. But no. That hope was as foolish as thinking I could escape.

Instead, three women entered. Their soft footsteps barely disturbed the silence. Their muted gowns and blank expressions told me everything—they had been instructed not to engage. Behind them, two men in black suits hovered near the door. Guards. Not for my safety, but to ensure I didn't try anything reckless.

The tallest maid dipped into a curtsy. "It is time to prepare, miss."

I didn't move.

She hesitated, but only for a moment, before motioning to the others. They stepped forward, hands gentle but firm as they pulled me to my feet. My limbs protested, stiff from days spent curled in bed, my body sluggish. I didn't resist. But I didn't help either.

They led me to the vanity, where a gown hung from a wooden mannequin beside it. I had seen glimpses of it during its making, but never like this—never finished, never waiting for me.

It was beautiful. Elegant. And it felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

The fabric was an ethereal shade of ivory, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered under the morning light. Long-sleeved, high-necked—modest yet regal. The bodice hugged the waist before cascading into layers of silk. A dress for a princess.

But I was no princess.

I was a prisoner walking toward her cage.

My fists clenched, nails pressing into my palms.

Still, I said nothing as they began their work.

They brushed out my tangled hair with mechanical ease, smoothing it into an intricate twist. A dusting of powder, a flush to my cheeks, a touch of color on my lips—transforming me into something delicate, something beautiful, something that looked willing.

But my eyes—my eyes gave me away.

Dark. Hollow. Unblinking.

A doll, I thought bitterly. A perfectly dressed doll, ready to be placed in someone else's hands.

Somewhere outside, the distant roll of car wheels signaled the arrival of guests. My stomach twisted.

"Where is my father?" My voice cracked from disuse.

None of the maids met my gaze.

"The master will meet you at the ceremony," the tallest one said, securing the final pin in my hair.

So that was it. No last words. No pretense of care.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, my fingers brushing over my wrist where I had once worn a bracelet—one I had taken off the day he sold me.

The maid hesitated. "Is there anything you require, miss?"

I could ask for Nina. I could ask for my phone. I could beg for an answer.

But what was the point?

I shook my head.

They helped me into the gown. The weight of it settled over my shoulders, suffocating. It fit perfectly, as if it had been molded for me.

As if this had been decided long before I ever had a say.

A soft knock. One of the guards stepped inside.

"It's time."

I inhaled sharply. Steadied myself.

This was it. No more fighting. No more running.

The only thing left was to face whatever awaited me.

Before I turned, my gaze fell to the vanity.

Nestled between the silver brushes and delicate powders lay the only thing I had left of my mother.

The hairpin.

A single blue stone set within intricate silver branches. Delicate, yet unyielding. Just like her. Just like I wanted to be.

I reached for it, my fingers trembling, and turned it over in my palm. Cool to the touch. Grounding. A reminder that I was more than a transaction. More than my father's bargaining piece.

Slowly, I lifted it to my hair, sliding it into place just above the twist. A final act of defiance. A silent prayer.

Give me strength, Mother.

I exhaled, long and slow, before looking at the guard.

"I'm ready."

This time, my voice didn't waver.

And with that, I walked toward my fate.

The halls were quieter than I expected. No hurried footsteps. No whispered gossip from the maids. Just an eerie silence stretching between the steady clack of my heels against the marble.

Two guards flanked me. Not an escort. A delivery.

At the base of the grand staircase, my father waited. Hands clasped behind his back. His expression unreadable. He did not look at me until I reached the final step.

For a moment, we simply stared at each other.

The same man who had once lifted me onto his shoulders. Who had taught me how to hold a pen. Who had kissed my forehead goodnight.

And the same man who had sold me.

Something flickered in his gaze. Guilt? Hesitation?

I wanted to believe it.

Then he extended his arm. Businesslike. Expectant.

It didn't matter. Whatever remorse lingered in his eyes, his actions had already spoken louder.

I swallowed hard and took his arm.

No words passed between us as he led me through the doors.

And they were waiting.

A sea of unfamiliar faces, all dressed in black and deep jewel tones. Their hushed conversations died as I stepped forward. I tried as much as possible not to look at their faces.

The atmosphere was thick with an ominous aura, one that screams power, even the blind would see that the seated people weren't ordinary people.

My father's grip tightened. The cold stone beneath my feet made every step heavier.

Then, I saw him.

A figure at the end of the aisle.

Tall. Dressed in black. Still as stone.

Watching. Waiting.

And when I met his gaze, I understood why no one spoke of him.

He was beautiful. He was perfect, like something that could only exist in imagination.

Sharply cut features. Dark hair, neatly combed back. Piercing eyes, neither warm nor cold—just unreadable.

No curiosity. No interest. No resentment.

As if I were nothing.

Nothing more than an obligation.

My stomach twisted.

The weight of my mother's hairpin pressed against my skull. A reminder to to breathe.

I reached the altar.

My father released me.

And for the first time, I stood beside my husband-to-be.

The ceremony was about to begin.