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I force a small laugh, feeling like that’s what he expects me to do. Inside, my heart folds inward. He doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

Maybe both.

Dinner moves forward in slow, aching increments. The courses parade past: soup too rich for my stomach, meat stuffed into delicate pastries, endless refills of wine I sip without really tasting. Every toast, every congratulatory pat on Davit’s back, every whispered well-wish presses another arrow into my chest.

When the server clears my barely-touched plate, Davit leans toward me again. His voice is a breath against my ear.

“You’ll want to eat more after the wedding,” he says, smiling as if it’s a compliment. “Wouldn’t want you starving on our honeymoon. You’ll need stamina for what I have planned.”

I grip the edge of the chair to steady myself, nails biting into the wood.

Around us, laughter swells. Someone calls for another toast. Glasses lift. Cameras flash.

No one sees.

Or they see and choose not to look too closely.

Later that night, I lie awake in my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling while the house creaks and settles around me. The satin comforter traps heat against my skin, but I can’t bring myself to kick it away. I feel pinned by it, weighted by a life I never chose.

The rehearsal dinner ended hours ago, but my mind refuses to release me. I turn every conversation over in my head. I think about the moments I could have spoken up and didn't. The small surrenders. The quiet concessions. The way I trained myself to smile through discomfort, to nod through humiliation, to accept less because wanting more was selfish.

A life built on silence. A personality built on duty. I’ve spent my life playing the part so well that even I started to forget where the mask ended and I began.

I am twenty-six years old and have never truly lived for myself. Everything I’ve ever done in life has been decided for me by my parents. And now Davit will be the person who makes all those decisions.

This hard truth cracks something deep inside my chest.

I press a hand against my heart, as if I can hold the pieces together a little longer. Long enough to survive tomorrow.Maybe long enough to survive the years that will stretch behind it.

But for the first time, the thought doesn’t bring numbness. It brings panic.

I sit up slowly, my heart pounding so hard that it hurts.

I can’t do this. I cannot live this life.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wait for the dizziness to pass. Good girls don’t disobey.

But I don’t want to be a good girl anymore.

On unsteady feet, I cross the room and pull my old duffel bag from the back of the closet. The zipper sticks from disuse, and the fabric smells faintly of lavender. I move on instinct, collecting only what I can carry—my wallet, a few clothes, my worn copy ofPersuasion, and the car keys I stole from the kitchen.

I do not allow myself to hesitate. If I hesitate, I won’t follow through on this plan.

At the door, I pause, listening. I know the security rotations well. I know how often each guard does their rounds, and the best routes to avoid them.

The house is still, and I take my chance. I slip into the hall, down the stairs, through the side door that creaks if you do not lift the handle slowly. Muscle memory guides me, the same way it once did when I would sneak a book past bedtime or steal a moment alone in the garden.

I clutch the bag tighter and cross the driveway to the old sedan that belongs to one of our housekeepers. She will not miss it tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But tomorrow I’ll be missed too. And I’ll be long gone by then.

I feel bad taking her car, but can’t think about that now. And I’m sure my dad will just buy her another one. Thank God I knew where she kept the keys.

The engine catches on the second try. I guide the car down the winding street, past familiar houses and manicured lawns.

I drive without a plan, focusing only on getting away. The city lights fade behind me, swallowed by the darkness of the foothills. It isn’t until the mountains rise ahead that I even realize what direction I’m heading.

When I start to nod off from exhaustion, I find myself pulling into the gravel lot of a rundown motel tucked against the edge of the highway. The neon sign flickers half-heartedly, buzzing in the stillness.

It’s not up to the standard that I have grown used to. But, beggars can’t be choosers. And it’s this or sleep in the car.