Skyle's POV
The makeup room smelled faintly of roses and powder, soft, sweet scents that mocked the heaviness in my chest. Voices murmured around me, hands moved expertly over my face, but I felt distant, like I was watching everything from far away.
"Done," one of the women finally said.
A mirror was placed in front of me.
I stared.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The girl in the mirror was beautiful, stunning, even. My skin glowed softly, my eyes shimmered beneath long lashes, and my lips were painted a delicate pink. The white gown hugged my body perfectly, flowing like something out of a dream.
I let out a shaky laugh.
So this was what a bride looked like.
The amusement faded quickly, replaced by a sharp ache behind my ribs. What good was beauty when my heart was breaking? What good was a wedding gown when I was walking toward a life I never chose?
I lowered my eyes, my fingers clutching the fabric of my dress. I wasn't marrying for love. I wasn't marrying for hope.
I was marrying to survive.
A knock sounded on the door.
"It's time."
My heart skipped painfully as I stood. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to move. When the doors opened, I saw him.
My father.
Richard Hale stood stiffly in his tailored suit, looking every bit the proud businessman and nothing like a man about to give away a daughter he had ignored for years. He didn't smile. He didn't ask if I was okay. He simply extended his arm.
I hesitated before placing my hand on it.
As the music began and we stepped forward, the doors of the hall opened wide. Light poured in, reflecting off crystal chandeliers and expensive decorations. The guests turned, whispers rising like a wave.
Each step down the aisle felt like walking deeper into a trap.
I kept my eyes down, afraid that if I looked around, I might break. Afraid that if I searched the crowd, I might find someone who could save me, only to remember that no one ever had.
Then, almost against my will, I lifted my gaze.
He was standing at the altar.
Alexander Blackwood.
Tall. Composed. Cold.
His presence alone commanded the room. The black suit he wore fit him perfectly, his sharp features unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on me with calm scrutiny. He didn't look like a groom waiting for his bride.
He looked like a man closing a deal.
My throat tightened.
This was the man who believed I was Ava. The man who didn't know my name, my pain, or the truth behind this wedding.
My father stopped beside him and placed my hand into Alexander's.
The contact sent a jolt through me.
Without a word, my father stepped away.
And just like that, I was alone.
Alexander's POV
So this was Ava Hale.
I studied her quietly as she stood beside me. The rumors hadn't been exaggerated; she was undeniably beautiful. There was something soft about her, something almost fragile that didn't quite align with the ambitious woman I had imagined.
For a split second, I felt... curious.
Then I reminded myself who she was.
A woman willing to marry a stranger for money, status, and power.
The officiant's voice filled the hall, but my thoughts were elsewhere. One year. That was all. One year of playing the perfect husband for the sake of contracts and public image.
No emotions. No attachment.
When it was time, I spoke clearly. "I do."
Her turn came, and her voice trembled slightly as she answered, "I do."
The words echoed heavier than they should have.
"And now," the officiant smiled, "you may kiss the bride."
I stiffened.
I hadn't planned on this. Neither of us had, I think. I glanced at her, catching the flicker of fear in her eyes. The room waited. Cameras lifted. The silence stretched.
I leaned in.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned forward too.
Her lips were warm and soft, nothing like the cold obligation I expected. The kiss was brief, restrained, and entirely unwanted, but the crowd didn't know that. Applause erupted the moment we pulled apart.
I stepped back immediately, my jaw tightening.
This meant nothing, I told myself.
Nothing at all.
Ava's POV
My smile froze as I watched them kiss.
That should have been me.
The gown. The attention. The name, Mrs. Blackwood.
Jealousy burned hot in my chest, sharp and ugly. My nails dug into my palms as I forced myself to breathe. For a moment, panic threatened to surface.
My mom leaned close, her voice calm and reassuring. "Don't worry, Ava. It's only for a year. She's just filling in."
I swallowed and nodded slowly.
She was right.
Skyle was nothing more than a substitute.
A temporary inconvenience.
The thought settled my nerves, and a small smile curved my lips.
This was still a victory.
