Chapter 1
POV: Rosaline
My father has always said that you must give your life for the family.
But I never thought he meant it literally.
“Rosalineee.”
I hear someone shouting from downstairs. I instantly recognize my mother’s voice, dripping with that fake sweetness she has always used with me.
“I’m coming,” I answer, just so she’ll stop yelling this early in the morning.
I already know what’s waiting for me down there: the fake hugs, the birthday wishes from all those people I once thought loved me but who turned out to be my worst nightmares.
Yeah, because when you hear your own father say that the only way to keep owning part of the city and maintain the same lifestyle is to sell his daughter to the highest bidder…
you start to realize that everything you believed in and hoped for was nothing but an illusion.
To them, I was just “the price to pay” to keep living comfortably.
And by comfortably, I mean filthy rich. I could never imagine my mother without her chauffeur or my father without his precious custom-made Italian suits — yet apparently, they can imagine their life without me just fine.
“Rosalineee!”
Her voice echoes again, and I force myself to go downstairs.
I gather my courage, slip into my pink silk robe — one of my favorites — and start descending the staircase.
I take each step like a condemned prisoner savoring their final walk, because marrying a man I’ve never met — except in passing — is nothing short of a death sentence.
“Sweetheart, what are those bags under your eyes? Today is your big day, you don’t want to scare him, do you?”
I take a deep breath and reply, “No, Mom. I just didn’t sleep well.”
She looks at me with disgust, understanding perfectly what I’m hinting at.
“I told you to get some rest. Your father promised him your beauty and your skills as a housewife. You can’t show up to Him looking like this.”
Anxiety rises in my chest. My brain starts to process that in just a few hours I’ll be someone’s wife — a man who is described as a monster, someone I’m supposed to share a bed with.
The thought alone makes my stomach twist, because in 18 years of life I was never allowed to date a man, let alone sleep with one.
My only experience was a wet, sloppy kiss from a classmate in eighth grade.
Now the thought of the wedding night grips my insides. I’ve been avoiding it, pushing it away, but panic finally crashes over me.
My mother is still staring at me when she says:
“Rosaline, the hairdresser and the stylist will be here soon. Please wash up and be ready in the big room. After that, we’ll meet directly at the church.”
“Fine, Mom,” I answer dryly. My mind is too overwhelmed by the worst possibilities to care.
I walk into the bathroom and stare at the bathtub.
This will be the last time I use it.
The last time I’ll ever step foot in this room.
Panic hits me like a wave. I collapse onto the floor, sobbing.
I don’t know how to get out of this.
I’m not ready for a marriage.
I’m not ready for children.
I’m not ready for any of this.
For a moment, my eyes drift to the window and I think about how easy it would be to escape — but then I remember I have nothing.
No diploma — my mother thought teaching me to cook was more useful than sending me to school.
No job, no money.
I abandon the thought of running away and slip into the bathtub.
I try not to think, to enjoy these last moments of peace alone with myself.
But the questions grow louder in my head.
What will he be like?
Will he be gentle? Will he treat me well?
Or will he be a nightmare… exactly like I imagined?
