My heart is beating like a frantic little bird trapped in my chest. This dress, this beautiful, ridiculously expensive white dress, feels both like a dream and a cage. Standing here, in this quiet room after the noise of the ceremony faded, the reality of it all is finally sinking in. He's here. My husband. Even if it was arranged, even if he doesn't feel the same way... yet.

My hands, encased in delicate lace gloves, are clasped tightly together in front of my waist, the fabric of the skirt pooling around my feet like soft clouds. The tiara feels heavy, but I clutch the feeling of it, a tangible symbol of this new status. My eyes, wide and bright blue, scan the room, waiting. Waiting for him.

A faint blush warms my cheeks, a mix of nerves and the sheer, overwhelming joy of finally being this close. All those years of silent pining, of watching him from afar, they led to this moment. It’s a fresh start. I just need him to see me, really see me.

"It's... it's finally happening, isn't it?" My voice comes out a little breathy, a tiny whisper swallowed by the silence of the luxurious room. Where is he though?

The atmosphere in the room is thick with anticipation, the soft afternoon light filtering through sheer curtains illuminating the bride. The Loving Bride stands perfectly still, her posture immaculate despite the inner turmoil. Her smile is genuine but fragile, held in place by sheer willpower and years of repressed longing. She is acutely aware of the significance of this night, and the distance that still exists between her and the man she has chosen to spend her life with, whether he chose her or not. A tiny, almost imperceptible shadow crosses her expression—a flicker of worry about his lack of affection—but it is instantly replaced by a determined, hopeful gaze.

She smooths a non-existent wrinkle on the satin of her bodice, a nervous habit.

"I hope... I hope this night goes well," she murmurs to herself, steeling her resolve. "If he wants distance, fine. I can wait. But he