Page 8 of Declan

“Now, the flowers and the veil, and I’m done.” I glance at Selma, waiting for her nod of approval.

She stands up, her eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curling into a menacing smile. “He’s going to lose it,” she teases, giving my ass a playful slap.

I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me, echoing from somewhere deep inside—a rare moment of release in this nightmare. It feels good, even if just for a second.

I have zero control over this damn wedding. Everything’s being orchestrated by the Callaghans: their property, their décor, their music, and their food. The only thing they let me choose is my wedding dress.

I know the colour scheme: reds and whites. Fine by me. The ceremony will be held in their grand salon, and the reception will be in the ballroom. I’ve seen Declan’s mansion. It’s massive, like something out of a gothic novel. Each brother has his floor, and there’s even a fully equipped medical wing. Who the hell has a medical wing in their house? How messed up is that?

Standing in my dress, my reflection stares back at me: powerful, in control. But beneath the facade, my mind races. What kind of life am I about to walk into? Will I have my room, or will Declan demand that I share his bed? The thought sends a tremor through me, and my stomach churns.

Selma’s voice cuts through my spiral, yanking me back to the present as we drive home. “Will your father walk you down the aisle?” she asks, her tone curious but tinged with concern.

“Of course not,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’ll walk alone.” I pause, glancing at her. “No… I’ll walk with you.”

“It will be my honour,” she grins, throwing me a proud glance. She doesn’t know the full extent of what I have planned. But I do. If all goes as it should, I’ll make sure that on my wedding day, I control the narrative—not Declan, not my father.

As I step into the room where I’m supposed to get ready, I’m struck by how beautiful it is—but also by how wrong it feels. The space is too clean and too elegant.

The white walls gleam under the soft light spilling through the large windows, and the faint scent of roses lingers in the air. Of course, even my prep room is drenched in roses.

Dark oak furniture contrasts with delicate floral touches, an odd blend of the mansion’s imposing style. This isn’t just a random room; it’s been carefully prepared, made to look like some fairytale dream of what a bride’s room should be.

And, of course, it’s completely different from my style. But I already knew that would happen. The Callaghans don’t seem like the type to go for a Tim Burton theme.

Still, Declan made more of an effort than I expected. I don’t think anyone else would have bothered to create this illusion of beauty for such an ugly day. If this were my father, I’d probably be signing the wedding papers in his office, whiskey in hand. But Declan went to

all this trouble—not for me, but to show everyone, every leader, that this isthe wedding of the centuryfor the Irish Consortium.

I glance around. The flower arrangements on the vanity and the plush chair tucked neatly under the desk feel too thoughtful and meticulous. They scream control. This is a cage wrapped in a pretty bow.

The makeup artist and hairdresser are already waiting, their eager hands ready to transform me into the bride everyone expects to see at the ceremony.

My sisters breeze in with their fake smiles and phoney concerns. Their dresses are pristine in red and white tones, their hair styled in flawless updos that look like they’ve been glued in place.

They pretend to care, but their eyes can’t hide the jealousy. They’re still pissed, blaming me for whatever happened thatnight. I was just being myself, the same detached person I always am at those gatherings. It’s onthem! They’re the ones who messed up!

I refuse to let them see the dress. They glance around, trying to sneak a peek, but it’s safely hidden in the bathroom.

Then my father enters, dressed in an expensive navy suit, muttering about how proud he is—like that holds any weight.

Liar.

He’s never been proud of me, not once. This is all for what the Callaghan promised him: power and protection. He doesn’t care about me or my future as long as he gets what he wants. He’d trade me to the wolves if it meant saving his skin.

After their empty words and hollow compliments fill the room, they leave. My father, with his forced pride, and my sisters, with their shallow smiles, vanish through the door. Silence falls. Finally, I can breathe.

I sit in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as the makeup artist begins her work. She knows exactly what I want.

The pale foundation smooths over my skin, making me look ghostly. It’s intentional. I’ve done everything I can to look less like my sisters—their golden tans and perfect beauty disgust me.

She paints my eyes with heavy, smoky black shadows, dark and intense, like a storm brewing inside me. My lips are stained deep red, bold and defiant, more war paint than wedding makeup. They’re striking against the pale backdrop of my face.

My jet-black hair falls in soft waves down my back, with a single intricate braid woven through it. The braid contrasts against the smoothness of the rest, and I know it’ll hold firm no matter what happens today.

I look at my reflection, I feel ready for battle—a dark queen preparing to face her executioner.

Selma bursts through the door, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Got it!” she exclaims, locking the door behind her andholding up my bouquet of roses. “Let’s do this. Everyone’s in the ceremony room.”

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