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Chapter 2

The wedding morning came too quickly as if the universe was conspiring to kill me. I stared at my reflection in Ronaldo's mansion's luxurious guest room vanity. The woman staring at me seemed unreal. She wore her wild, dark hair in an elegant updo. A loose veil barely hid her panic. Her soft pink lips trembled slightly, revealing her inner turmoil.

As I tightened my hands around the chair's arms, the silk of the wedding dress clung to me like a second skin. This white gown—the opposite of how I felt—suffocated me. The mirror woman wasn't me. To the highest bidder, she was a stranger, a mannequin on display.

When the door creaked open behind me, I jumped, my heart racing as I saw the maid who had been watching me all morning. She was an older woman with kind eyes and soft features, but I could tell she was sad. I refused her comforting words earlier. No words could calm my fear.

“It’s time, Miss Roseline,” she whispered, almost apologising.

Nodding, my throat too tight to speak, I stood. My gown skirt rustled softly as I moved, a constant reminder of the weight of what was to come. The maid moved forward, trembling, to adjust the veil over my face. I couldn't return her weak smile. My lips stayed still.

The descent of the grand staircase felt akin to a slow march towards the gallows. I could hear guests whispering in anticipation of the spectacle in Ronaldo's sprawling mansion. The cold, grand, and unwelcoming house felt more like a fortress than a home. I only visited once, when my father took me to meet Ronaldo after the deal. But as I descended the steps in a gown I hadn't chosen for a man I didn't love, it felt like a prison.

My father awaited me at the bottom of the stairs. He looked strange in his worn suit, trembling as he fiddled with his chain links. His eyes lit up with pride when he saw me, but guilt soon replaced it. He'd done this. He sold me to survive. Still, I couldn't hate him. Not fully. His face reflected my desperation and helplessness.

He extended his arm, and I hesitated before linking my hand. I held his cold, clammy arm and felt it tense. The pounding of my heart drowned out his whispered apology. It was irrelevant now. Apologies wouldn't help.

The ballroom doors opened to reveal the ceremony crowd. The sea of faces was unfamiliar, except for a few—business associates and distant relatives I hadn't spoken to in years. They turned to me, whispering and staring at me. None of them mattered. Only one face did.

Ronaldo.

His dark silhouette stood at the end of the aisle amid sparkling chandeliers and lavish floral arrangements. His regal, commanding posture and broad shoulders perfectly complemented his tuxedo. As I approached, he was neither nervous nor smiling. He stared at me with those cold blue eyes, as if waiting for a business deal.

Unable to breathe. Every step was like walking through quicksand as I got closer to him, feeling the weight of the situation. I could feel the guests staring at me, but his eyes made me prickle. Lack of warmth and affection. Just ownership.

My father released my arm at the altar, and I stood trembling while Ronaldo joined me. He held out a firm hand, and I had to take it. His warm skin contrasted with my chill, but his touch did not comfort me. Only control.

My mind wandered as the officiant spoke, his voice a distant hum. My ears didn't register the vows or words. Ronaldo's suffocating presence beside me, his fingers tightening around mine to remind me that I belonged to him, was all I felt.

I hesitated when the officiant asked if I married Ronaldo. I felt like every eye in the room was on me during the long silence. My mouth dried, my pulse raced, and I considered running—escaping this nightmare before it was too late.

Where would I go? What was my choice?

“I do,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, the words like shards of glass in my throat.

Finished. The ceremony proceeded swiftly, and my cheek kiss felt as cold and impersonal as the man next to me. We signed the papers, spoke, and sealed the deed. Now Mrs. Ronaldo Santos.

The reception was as painful as the ceremony. I smiled when I should have and nodded at strangers who congratulated me, but it felt like a dark, twisted dream I couldn't wake from. Ronaldo barely spoke to me, only occasionally looking to make sure I was doing my part.

After the last guests left, the grand ballroom was silent. I held onto a table at the room's edge to steady myself. My head was spinning and my body was trembling from exhaustion and fear.

Ronaldo entered with an unreadable expression as the door creaked open. He moved towards me with the same ease, casting a shadowy presence between us.

He demanded, "Come with me," in a low and commanding tone.

My legs were weak, so I followed him silently. He led me down a long, winding hallway lined with expensive paintings and antiques, echoing in the house's stillness. We reached a large oak door at the end of the corridor, and my heart raced.

Ronaldo opened it to reveal a dimly lit room. Bedroom. The realization slammed me in the gut, freezing me.

The end. Final death blow.

I wanted to run. Scream. I had no choice but to enter that room with him. But I couldn't. Trapped.

He turned to me, his gaze dark and unreadable, and I saw something flicker in his eyes for the first time since we met. Some danger.

“You’re mine now, Roseline,” he whispered, drawing closer until I felt his heat on me. You'll learn to obey.

I swallowed hard, shaking my body as I looked at him. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room before I could respond or process my fear.

As the door closed behind us, I knew there was no turning back.

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