The palace mirrors gleamed under the morning sun as the royal attendants moved quickly, yet carefully, around the tall chair in the center of the bridal chamber.
Salira Hasrima sat perfectly still, like a queen already crowned.
Her red curls had been pinned into an elaborate half-up style, adorned with glimmering gold hairpieces shaped like blooming camellias. Around her, silks rustled and jewels clinked. A team of five maids worked in synchronized silence, tying the corset of her gown, sliding on her gloves, and brushing the faint shimmer of powder over her cheekbones.
She stared into the mirror.
But it wasn't vanity that made her look so long.
It was disbelief.
That's me, Iris thought from behind those green eyes. I'm really about to marry Prince Adam.
This wasn't a dream. Not another twisted chapter of the novel she once adored.
This was her life now.
A sharp knock echoed on the door.
"Lady Salira," a servant called. "Ten minutes."
The room cleared for a moment, leaving Iris to breathe in the quiet.
The dress was… stunning.
A regal white with gold embroidery woven in elegant spirals across the bodice. The skirt flared gently, flowing like water when she walked, and the long sleeves gave her a delicate yet dangerous look—like a blade wrapped in silk.
She whispered to herself, "If they're going to look… I might as well give them something unforgettable."
---
When Salira stepped out into the hallway, the entire palace stopped.
Nobles, maids, and passing knights paused in their tracks. Conversations died mid-sentence.
The villainess—once scorned, mocked, ignored—now looked like she belonged on a throne made of fire and glass.
Guests whispered as she descended the grand stairs toward the wedding hall.
"Is that Lady Salira?"
"She's… unrecognizable."
"She looks like she could conquer the empire."
The palace garden, transformed into a grand open-air ballroom, was draped in white silks and golden lanterns. Petals fluttered on the breeze, and a soft melody filled the air.
But Salira wasn't looking at the decorations.
She was scanning the crowd for him.
Where is Adam? she wondered. He's not here yet…
But before she could step toward the altar, a voice interrupted.
"Salira!"
Flora.
In a bubblegum-pink gown that shimmered in the light, Flora glided toward her with a wine glass in hand and an overly sweet smile.
"I just wanted to say congratulations," she said, pausing in Salira's path.
Iris instantly tensed. Don't do it, Flora…
Too late.
With a clumsy twirl, Flora "accidentally" tipped her glass forward.
Splash.
Deep red wine spilled straight down the front of Salira's pristine white gown.
Gasps erupted.
"Oh no!" Flora exclaimed, feigning horror. "I'm so sorry, Salira! My hand slipped!"
From the crowd, Alpher suddenly stepped forward.
"Salira, don't shout at Flora. It was just a mistake," he said sternly.
Of course it was my fault, Iris thought bitterly. Classic.
She looked down at her dress. The red stain bloomed like a rose over her stomach. Everyone stared, waiting for her to break. To scream. To cry.
But instead…
She smiled.
A quiet, controlled, razor-sharp smile.
"No worries, Flora," Salira said calmly, locking eyes with her. "It's all good."
Then—without flinching—she reached down and ripped the stained part of her gown clean off.
The slit she left behind exposed her leg from thigh to ankle—elegant, defiant, unapologetic.
Guests gasped.
Old noblewomen clutched their fans.
One actually fainted.
And then—
> "LADY SALIRA!!" roared the Emperor, rising from his gilded chair. "What kind of behavior is this?! At your own wedding?!"
But before she could reply, a deep voice cut across the garden.
> "The kind," it said, "that doesn't take disrespect from anyone."
Heads turned.
And there he was.
Prince Adam.
Dressed in white and silver, with his black hair brushed back and a sword-shaped pin at his collar. A long white fur cape trailed behind him as he walked—unbothered, lethal, breathtaking.
He looked less like a prince and more like a legend.
Without a word, he unfastened the heavy white fur cloak from his shoulders and walked up to Salira.
He gently wrapped it around her.
"She is mine," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And I won't let anyone treat her like less than the woman she is."
The Emperor looked furious, but Adam's gaze didn't waver.
Flora took a trembling step back.
And Alpher stood frozen.
Salira turned toward Adam, letting the corner of her lips curl upward.
"You're late," she whispered.
He smirked. "Fashionably."
And together, they stepped forward to the altar, wrapped in fur, fire, and power.
The wedding would begin.
And so would the era of Salira Hasrima—no longer a villainess.
But something far more dangerous:
A queen they could never control.