Freya's POV
The mirror in the bridal suite reflected a stranger in white.
I stood motionless, hands hovering over the lace gown, terrified that touching it might shatter the illusion. The dress was a teenage fantasy brought to life—ivory satin hugging my waist, tulle cascading to the floor, off-the-shoulder sleeves leaving my collarbones bare. A pearl-pinned veil framed my face.
Ten years, I thought, a smile tugging my lips. Ten years of waiting for this exact moment.
I remembered the first time Dylan Voss kissed me behind the bleachers. It was bittersweet. I remembered the nights he’d driven me home after Elaine, my stepmother, screamed at me for merely breathing. He’d park under the streetlight and hold me until the shaking stopped. I remembered him dropping to one knee in our favorite park, a ring trembling in his grasp as his voice cracked. "I want forever with you, Frey."
My family never understood. Elaine doted on Helene—the golden stepsister whose modeling gigs supposedly brought our family luck. Tristan, my father, faded into the background, offering nothing but distance. But Dylan was my sanctuary. My proof that someone could choose me.
Today, that proof became permanent.
My smile slipped. Mom should be here.
Selena Lennox died suddenly when I was fourteen. The doctors called it heart failure, offering zero explanations. After that, Elaine usurped the household. She showered Helene with designer clothes and modeling lessons. I became the shadow—the maid cleaning up Helene’s tantrums, the punching bag hearing "You’re just like your weak mother" whenever I spoke. Dad retreated further into silence, never defending me, never speaking my name with warmth.
Only Grandma—Mom’s mother—truly saw me. Though bedridden and fading in a stark hospital room, she still gripped my hand during visits. "You’re strong, my girl," she’d whisper. "Stronger than they know." I spent countless nights beside her, brushing her silver hair, vowing to find a way to make her walk again.
I touched the gold locket resting at my throat—Mom's daily staple. Inside sat a faded photo of me as a baby in her arms. I closed my eyes.
I wish you could see me today, Mom. I wish you could walk me down the aisle instead of him. I wish Grandma could stand up and watch me marry the man who promised to protect me.
I imagined them both smiling from somewhere beyond. The thought steadied my breathing.
Today, everything changes. No more being invisible. No more playing the leftover Lennox. Today, I become his wife.
A sharp knock shattered my reverie.
"Freya?" Dad’s voice bled through the door—stiff, exactly how he always addressed me. "It’s time."
I smoothed my palms down the gown, inhaled sharply, and yanked the door open.
Dad stood there in a charcoal suit, looking older than I remembered. His gaze flicked over my dress before darting away. "You look… great."
It wasn't praise, but it was close enough.
I forced a smile. "Thank you, Dad."
He offered his arm. I slipped my hand through it, the silk sleeve cooling my skin. Together, we marched down the corridor toward the ballroom.
Emeralda City’s premier venue glittered under crystal chandeliers. The guest list was obscene—billionaires, socialites, and fashion executives whose names splashed across glossy magazines. Heads turned as I entered, murmurs rippling through the crowd.
"She looks flawless." "Ten years—Dylan Voss finally locked her down." "She's incredibly lucky to land a guy like Dylan."
I kept my chin high, pasting on a smile. The music swelled—soft strings filling the room. My heart hammered so violently I was sure the front row could hear it.
Today is the day.
Dad led me down the petal-strewn aisle. Guests stood. Cameras flashed.
I finally reached the altar.
The officiant smiled. The string quartet faded into a hush.
I turned, scanning the altar for Dylan.
He wasn't there.
My smile vanished.
Seconds bled into minutes. He's not here.
The officiant cleared his throat. "Perhaps he's running late..."
Whispers ignited, spreading like wildfire across the pews.
"Where’s the groom?" "Did he seriously ditch her?" "Left at the altar—pathetic." "She probably trapped him, and he finally bailed."
My cheeks burned. I glanced at Dad—his jaw locked, eyes glued to the empty space where Dylan belonged. Elaine sat in the front row, sporting a cruel smirk. Helene was suspiciously absent too.
The murmurs amplified. A mocking laugh echoed from the back.
My vision blurred. This dream gown suddenly morphed into a suffocating cage. My chest seized.
Would he actually abandon me?
He wouldn’t. Not Dylan. Not after everything.
But the clock kept ticking. He remained a ghost.
Humiliation crawled up my throat, choking me. I couldn't stand there for another second while the city watched me unravel.
I have to find him.
Without a word, I hoisted my skirts and bolted down the aisle—past the gaping mouths, past the recording phones, dodging Dad’s outstretched hand. I didn’t stop until I hit the VIP suites upstairs.
I needed answers.
Maybe he's just sick. Maybe he threw up in the bathroom. I clung to that pathetic excuse.
The hallway was dead silent, save for the muffled reception below. I marched forward, my heels clicking sharply against the marble, until I stopped outside Helene’s dressing room.
Then, I heard it.
A breathy moan. The rhythmic slap of flesh. A muffled gasp, followed by a guttural groan.
My stomach plummeted. I nudged the heavy door, cracking it open.
Warm lamplight flooded the room. On the king-sized bed, amidst tangled silk sheets, was Dylan. He was completely naked, his hips pounding ruthlessly into the woman pinned beneath him. Her auburn hair spilled across the pillows, her head thrown back in pure ecstasy as her manicured nails dug deep into his spine.
The air evaporated from my lungs. The auburn hair. The familiar perfume.
It was Helene. My stepsister. My own flesh and blood, spreading her legs for my fiancé. Their sweat-slicked bodies crashed together in a filthy, animalistic rhythm.
My chest ripped open at the sight.
They didn’t notice me. I stood paralyzed, the universe shrinking to the grotesque image of my groom buried deep inside my stepsister while our wedding march played downstairs.
A shattered gasp escaped my lips.
It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
Helene’s eyes fluttered open. A wicked smirk instantly stretched across her flushed face.
"Well," she purred, arching her back to meet Dylan's thrust. "Look who finally showed up."
Dylan glanced over his shoulder without missing a single beat, his face completely smug.
"Freya," he rasped, his tone terrifyingly casual. "You’re early."