The bridal suite was quiet, save for the faint rustle of lace and satin as Carmilla stood before the mirror. Her wedding gown clung to her like a porcelain shell, delicate, elegant, and yet, suffocating. The room, adorned with soft white florals and flickering candles, felt more like a stage than a sanctuary.
Mrs. Hunt stood behind her daughter, her fingers meticulously adjusting the lace sleeves of the gown. Her touch was precise, but cold void of the affection one might expect from a mother preparing her daughter for her wedding day.
"I've already moved your belongings into the Harrington estate," she said coolly. "After the wedding, there's no need for you to return home."
Her words cut like glass.
"You're finally doing something right for once in your life."
Carmilla swallowed the sting, her throat tightening. The bitterness in her mother's voice was nothing new, but today it landed differently. Heavier. Final.
Mrs. Hunt's eyes met her daughter's in the mirror—hard, detached, without a trace of warmth.
"Just remember," she continued, voice clipped with command, "you're securing our family's future. This isn't a sacrifice, Carmilla. This is the beginning of your happiness."
Carmilla blinked back the rising pressure behind her eyes. Happiness. Was that what this was supposed to be?
Behind them, her father stood quietly near the window, his hands folded, his gaze distant. Regret weighed on him like a heavy coat. He had objected to the arrangement from the beginning, but his voice had been drowned out by the iron will of his wife. Now, all he could do was watch.
"Mia," Mrs. Hunt said sharply, turning away from Carmilla, "make sure her hair is perfect. I won't have her looking like a mess on the one day she's supposed to be worth something."
Mia, dressed in her shimmering mauve maid-of-honor gown, clenched her jaw. She moved toward Carmilla, her hands gentle despite the fury in her eyes.
"I've got it," she replied shortly, beginning to adjust the soft curls framing Carmilla's face. Her touch was soothing, her expression fierce with quiet loyalty.
She had seen Mrs. Hunt cruel before, but this—this level of icy disdain—made her blood boil. Mia leaned close and whispered softly, "You don't deserve this, Cam. None of it."
Before Carmilla could respond, her father stepped forward.
"You look beautiful, darling," he said softly, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I only wish you were walking into this moment with someone you truly love."
Mrs. Hunt turned on him with a scoff.
"Oh, please. Must you always play the martyr? Why do you two insist on making me the villain here? You should be grateful she agreed to this wedding. And now you're trying to convince her otherwise? Typical."
"That's enough," he said, his voice rising for the first time. "Grateful? You should be asking her if this is what she wants—as a mother, that should be your concern. But no. All you've done is guilt her, blame her, pressure her into something she never asked for."
Mrs. Hunt's face turned to stone. Her silence spoke volumes.
Carmilla's hands trembled slightly, her breath catching. The sound of her parents fighting—on her wedding day—felt like a cruel echo of everything she'd been forced to endure. The room, though beautiful, suddenly felt colder.
Then, Mia stepped in, wrapping her arms around Carmilla's shoulders and pulling her into a firm hug.
"Hey. Look at me," she whispered. "You're strong. Stronger than you think. Marriage or no marriage, you're a conqueror. You've always been."
Carmilla let out a shaky breath. Those words, spoken with such sincerity, warmed her from within. The pain didn't vanish, but it became bearable.
Just as she pulled back, her mother approached with a small bouquet of white gardenias and pale pink roses. Her voice softened, surprisingly.
"These were my favorite flowers when I got married," Mrs. Hunt said, offering them to her. "I promised myself I'd give them to my daughter one day. You should feel lucky I kept that promise."
Carmilla blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her mother's tone. It wasn't love, not quite—but it was something close to sentiment.
"Thank you, Ma," she murmured, managing a faint smile.
The ceremony was held in the grand courtyard of the Harrington estate. Vines of white wisteria cascaded down the marble arches, and the evening light bathed the venue in a soft golden glow. Rows of guests sat on either side of a flower-lined aisle, the quiet hum of conversation fading as the music began.
Carmilla walked down the aisle on her father's arm, every step feeling heavier than the last. Her face wore a carefully crafted smile, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She clutched the bouquet tightly—her mother's small token of sincerity giving her just enough strength to move forward.
At the altar, Harrison stood tall and composed in a custom-tailored tuxedo, his eyes fixed on her. He looked striking—charming even—but more importantly, there was no judgment in his eyes. Only something that looked oddly like… compassion.
As they reached the front, her father gave her hand a final squeeze before releasing it.
"Dearly beloved," the officiant began, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of Carmilla and Harrison in marriage."
The wind shifted gently, rustling Carmilla's veil as she took her place beside Harrison. The world around them blurred into soft light and murmured prayers.
She turned slightly to look at Harrison. He offered her the faintest smile—calm, reassuring. And for a moment, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, this man wouldn't be as cold as the world that had handed her to him.
"Harrison, repeat after me," the officiant continued.
"I, Harrison, take you, Carmilla, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forward…"
His voice was steady, full of intent, and when he looked at her—really looked—there was something disarming in his eyes. Something human.
Carmilla felt her throat tighten, but she forced herself to breathe.
"Carmilla, repeat after me."
"I, Carmilla, take you, Harrison, to be my husband. To have and to hold from this day forward…"
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but she said the words. Every syllable carried the weight of her family, her sacrifice, and the future she didn't yet understand.
The rings were exchanged, and when Harrison leaned in to kiss her, she closed her eyes—not with hope, but with quiet resignation.
They kissed, and the officiant's voice rang out:
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The crowd erupted in applause. Rose petals floated through the air. Somewhere, a string quartet resumed its soft melody.
But inside, Carmilla felt numb. Not broken—but not whole either. She was now married. Bound. Tethered to a life she had not chosen.
And yet, as Harrison took her hand and led her down the aisle she held her head high—because Mia was right.
She was a conqueror, Even in chains made of silk and gold.