redith.
The morning of my forced wedding arrived too quickly.
I had barely slept the night before—my mind had been a storm of rage, humiliation, and helplessness.
But none of that mattered now. Because it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
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The sun had barely risen when a group of servants led by Mada Beatrice entered my chamber.
They moved swiftly, efficiently, wordlessly— as if I were nothing more than a doll they were dressing up for display.
A warm bath, drizzled with goat milk and scented with vanilla oil, was prepared for . I was made to soak in it for ten minutes before the scrubbing began. Not an inch of my skin was spared. And by the ti they were done, I was left with red patches.
The pain from climbing hundreds of stairs intensified, along with this fresh batch from having my body scrubbed by iron-fisted hands. The way these people washed my skin made it seem like I had so diseases that had to be scrubbed off.
I could understand yesterday's intense scrubbing because I looked like filth. But today? I still can't understand the need for it.
I felt violated once again when two pairs of hands road over every inch of my body, saring coconut oil on it. No matter how many tis I said that I could do it myself, it fell on deaf ears.
Fine silk was draped over my body, followed by makeup brushes delivering different colours of powder all over my face. Heavy jewellery—pure gold, encrusted with eralds—was fastened around my neck.
A delicate silver circlet, woven with tiny moonstone gems, was placed in my hair before the white cloud bridal hat was placed over it to cover my face.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
The reflection staring back at was a stranger—a doll, painted and adorned, shaped into sothing delicate—sothing that wasn't .
This was Draven Oatrun's bride.
Mada Beatrice stood at the side and ordered one of the won to try the three different bridal shoes on my feet before she finally chose the one made with a white embroidery.
"You have beautiful feet," she said with a straight face.
Before I could even take a steady breath, the doors burst open—an unwelco presence sweeping in like a cold draft.
The servants imdiately stiffened. The air grew heavy with tension.
Instantly, I turned my gaze to the right, only to see a woman I recognized from the Lunar Ball walk through the door and towards . Her green eyes were sharp as they t mine.
Her familiar voice, smooth, but now dripping with venom, said, "I see the bride is ready."
"Miss Fellowes," Mada Beatrice gave the woman a curt nod while the rest of the servants bowed respectfully to her, a gesture that left wondering who she was.
"Leave us." Miss Fellowes commanded as her casual glance fell on Mada Beatrice.
The servants didn't hesitate. They bowed quickly and scurried out like frightened mice. Within ten seconds, we were left alone. Just and her.
I lifted my gaze to the mirror. And there she stood—Miss Fellowes, just right behind . Her erald-green gown with a deep V-neck hugged her curves perfectly. And her golden hair was pinned into an elegant, regal style.
She looked every bit like the woman who should be standing in my place.
Her red lips parted. "Do you know who I am?" she asked, gazing at through the mirror. Her arms were crossed, her manicured nails tapping against her arm in slow, calculated beats.
"I don't," I answered without missing a beat.
"Do you even understand what's happening?" Her voice was low, sharp as a blade,
I remained silent.
She took a slow step forward, her lips curling. "You don't deserve this."
Another step. "You don't deserve him. Even for a mont."
Then she stopped just behind , placing a hand on the back of my chair, her fingers gripping the carved wood a little too tightly.
I t her gaze through the mirror once more. Her green eyes burning with sothing dark.
Jealousy. Hatred. Rage.
She hated .
Not because of my curse, nor because of my lack of a wolf like I had thought at the Lunar Ball when she tried to stop Draven from claiming .
For the first ti, I realized that this was hatred for who I was about to beco. Because she had a thing for Draven.
"Are you finished?" I asked evenly.
Surprise flashed across her eyes, and then her nostrils flared. She was pissed now. "How dare you speak to in that manner? You are nothing more than a piece in a ga of chess. Discardable. Killable!"
I don't know what ca over , but I found myself replying harshly even when I had no plans of doing that.
"If I were that easy to kill, I wouldn't still be standing."
Miss Fellowes stood behind in stunned silence. She hadn't expected that I would be assertive.
The silence stretched between us. Our gazes refused to back down.
Finally, Miss Fellowes broke the silence as her expression darkened. "Don't ever get the wrong idea. Draven doesn't belong to you. He is mine. And I will make sure you understand that."
I exhaled softly, shifting my gaze away. "I wonder if Draven knows he belongs to you," I mumbled, looking lost in thought.
The mont the words left my lips, I knew I had struck a nerve.
Miss Fellowes clenched her hands into fists.
For a split second, I thought she might hit . And she almost did.
Fortunately, Mada Beatrice ca back into the room with the group of servants, interrupting our heated exchange, thus, breaking the tense atmosphere.
"Miss Fellowes, the wedding bells will go off in a few minutes. And we still have so work to do."
Miss Fellowes withdrew her gaze from Mada Beatrice and cast it on .
"Don't get comfortable, redith. One day, you'll regret ever stepping foot into this place. And I am Wanda Fellowes. Don't ever forget my na," she warned before walking away.
But the air was still thick with her anger.
I had just made an enemy.
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