Page 1

Chapter 1

Ani

The wedding dress hangs from the closet door, shimmering in the low evening light. It’s a traditional monstrosity with so much heavy beading it pulls the hanger slightly askew. I didn’t pick it out, but I’ll wear it because it’s expected of me.

On the dresser, the jewelry is laid out in rows: huge diamond earrings, a double strand of pearls, anda tennis bracelet studded with sparkling diamonds.

We will arrive at the venue at 7:30 a.m. on the dot. The photographer will follow. My hair appointment is set for eight. The makeup artist will arrive at the same time and begin with the bridesmaids. There's a schedule printed and pinned to the bulletin board, a timeline designed to keep tomorrow orderly.

Everything is ready.

Except me.

My room feels cramped. The walls lean closer. The ceiling presses down. I focus on the list, the order of events, the certainty of it. First, hair. Second, makeup. Third, vows. Fourth, photos.

Fifth—

I swallow hard, my hands tightening until the knuckles pale. I can’t breathe.

Fifth is the part I can’t think about without shaking. Fifth is forever. It’s a life I don't want and a man I can barely stand.

Davit Petrosyan is perfect on paper. Armenian, like me. Raised with the same expectations, the same iron-clad traditions. His family is well-connected—businessmen, politicians, old money wrapped in even older promises. He’s educated, respected, exactly the kind of match my parents dreamed of securing before I could even spell my own name.

I did not choose Davit though. He was chosen for me. I know what people will say: that plenty of arranged marriages bloom into love—or something close enough to survive. That I’m lucky, so lucky, to be chosen, protected, provided for.

But I am not lucky.

I am trapped.

Davit is perfect on paper, but he is not a good man or a good match. Every time he looks at me, it feels less like a future and more like a prison sentence.

He talks about marriage the way he talks about property lines and bank accounts. Transactional. Practical. Necessary. I’m nothing more than a means to an end. And, despite how I was raised, I had romantic dreams about marriage.

There’s a knock on the doorframe. Well, less of a knock and more of a collision of rings against wood. My mother's silhouette blocks the light from the hall.

"You are not ready," she says, surveying the room with watchful eyes. She sweeps in before I can answer, heels clicking against the hardwood, the overwhelming smell of her gardenia perfume swallowing the air between us.

"I was about to?—"

"Not about to," she cuts, reaching for my hair. "You should be ready. This is important, Anoush."

I bite my lip, holding still as her fingers find fault in the simple hair twist I'd pinned earlier. She tugs, hard enough to hurt, and pulls the style apart with brisk, impatient strokes.

"I told you no center part," she mutters. "It elongates your face too much. You must think about these things."

"Sorry," I whisper, though the apology lodges in my throat.

She clicks her tongue. "Do not be sorry. Be beautiful."

My mother believes that beauty is not something you have but something you must work for. I happen to think it comes from within, but what do I know?

Her hands move with efficiency, twisting and pinning, pulling and smoothing.

"You are representing your family tomorrow," she reminds me, tugging a strand of hair into place so tightly that my scalp protests. "Do not embarrass us."

The wordussticks harder than the pins biting into my scalp.

When she’s satisfied—finally—she steps back, adjusting her bracelets, and casts one more disapproving glance my way.