Chapter 1
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." – Matthew 5:4
"Oh my God!" a young woman gasped, her voice swallowed by the awe-struck murmurs around her.
All heads turned toward the grand staircase, where the nation's most desired bachelor, Bryson Tiller, made his descent. With one hand tucked casually in his pocket and a charming smile curving his lips, he moved with effortless grace. His skin held the golden hue of warm honey, his jet-black hair swept perfectly into place, and his dark, unreadable eyes held a storm behind their calm surface.
His bone structure was sculpted, sharp, and impossibly flawless—jawline cut like glass, nose strong, lips perfectly formed. When he spoke, it was with the smooth confidence of a man who knew the world bent to his will. At over six feet tall, his commanding presence silenced even the loudest hearts.
But as Bryson moved through the lavishly dressed crowd, eyes clinging to him like moths to a flame, his gaze was fixed on only one person.
Iris Knight.
She didn’t flinch under his stare—she never had. They’d grown up together since childhood, and unlike the other women in the room, she had long since become immune to his allure. As he approached her, she felt the familiar pull of his presence, and then a gentle tap on her shoulder.
Turning around, she looked into his eyes. He smiled—and for a brief second, something real flickered there.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
Iris smiled, gave a small nod, and let him take her hand.
Envious stares pierced her from every corner of the room, but she didn’t care. As the music played, she danced with the man who now wore the title of her husband.
When the final note lingered and faded, she politely excused herself and joined her best friend, Heather.
"You two look like a damn movie couple,” Heather gushed, fanning herself. “Honestly, if he were my type, I’d be so jealous. And girl, that ring? God—it’s insane. The whole room’s about to pass out when they realize Bryson Tiller isn’t on the market anymore. You’re his wife. That’s wild.”
Iris smiled faintly, but her mind wandered—until she noticed Bryson stepping up onto the stage, microphone in hand. The chatter died instantly.
He smiled—perfect, polished, deadly.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” he began. “I hope you're enjoying the evening. I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to make a small announcement. To all the lovely ladies who came here tonight hoping for a shot”—he paused, letting the crowd chuckle—“I’m off the market. Married, in fact.”
A few gasps.
“My wife is none other than Iris Knight—you all know her, the country’s sweetheart, the brightest star in our skies. So, I hope this settles the rumors, shuts down the threats, and ends the noise. I’m a married man now.”
With a wink and a bow, he stepped off the stage, the crowd erupting in stunned whispers and applause.
He walked straight to Iris, and embraced her tightly in front of everyone, his hand firm on her back. And then, with his lips just inches from her ear, he whispered words that made her soul sink:
“Don’t let this act get to your head, woman. You're nothing to me. I don't love you. In fact, I despise you. If I could end your life right now, I would. Never forget your place, slut.”
He released her gently, still smiling for the cameras, for the guests, for the world.
Iris’s expression didn’t falter. She merely smiled, nodded politely, and excused herself to the restroom with the elegance of a queen.
Inside the safety of four walls, with the door closed behind her, she exhaled. The weight in her chest grew heavier as she faced the mirror. The woman looking back at her was beautiful—but broken.
Her smile faded.
A single tear slid down her cheek. Why was she being punished for something she never did? Why did happiness always slip just out of reach? Was she ever meant to be loved? Or was she destined to wear pain-like perfume—hidden, sweet, and suffocating?
