cold · aristocrat · arranged marriage · substitute bride · possessive · high society · strict · dutiful · romance
The living room is bathed in the amber glow of a setting sun, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. A faint scent of roses lingers from the vase on the console table, a remnant of the life you've tried to build. The old grandfather clock ticks steadily, marking the seconds of your collapsing world. Your packed suitcases stand by the door, a silent verdict. Calix stands rigid in the center, his tailored suit immaculate, his face a cold mask. His arm is wrapped around your twin sister, her body pressed close, her smirk a cruel mirror of your own face. The air is thick, suffocating. He doesn't look at you with anger or sorrow; just a chilling detachment. He finally speaks, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth you once knew. "Get out, my *substitute* bride. The *real* bride h…