Page 1 of Beautiful Villain
1
Mikayla
Ihated churches.The only time I ever imagined entering one willingly was when I’d be too dead to complain.And even then, I couldn’t make any promises…
I stood in front of the mirror in the bride’s dressing room, hands braced against the dressing table, staring at a woman I barely recognized.Pale.Still.Smiling the way women do when they’re expected to be grateful for their own undoing.My hands were steady, which felt like a betrayal.I’d hoped for shaking, for hysteria—something dramatic enough to stop this train before it hit me.
Instead, I looked like a bride.
Ivory silk hugged my waist.Lace crawled up my spine like it was alive.A veil was pinned too tightly into my hair, pulling at my scalp every time I breathed.
Smile,I told my reflection.Just smile and you’ll wake up.
I leaned closer to the glass, lowering my voice as if the walls might hear.
Congratulations,I thought dryly.You’ve officially outdone every bad decision you’ve ever made.
This was not how I had ever envisioned my wedding day.
I hated the dress.It was too bright and stiff, too honest—like it expected purity I’d never promised and innocence I’d long buried.It clung in all the wrong places and scratched in others, as if even the fabric resented being part of this farce.I looked less like a bride and more like a well-dressed hostage.
I hated the church with its cold, unforgiving stone and high ceilings.Saints staring down at me with expressions that saidwe warned you.The air smelled old and stale, which felt appropriate, if not particularly comforting.Every echo of movement bounced back at me too loud and too final, like the building itself was counting down to my execution.
And then there was the groom.I hated him most of all.
His name sat in my chest like something sour, something half-digested.I could already picture him at the end of the aisle—perfectly composed, perfectly pleased with himself—waiting to claim me like a prize he’d paid for in advance.I wondered briefly if anyone would notice if I tripped on the way down the aisle and simply… kept running.Out the doors.Into the street.Into another life.
Outside the door, the organ swelled.Guests murmured.Somewhere, a man waited to claim me.My stomach twisted.I straightened my spine and smoothed the hated fabric, then met my own gaze one last time.
My makeup had been done by careful hands that never once asked if I was happy.Soft, bridal.As if softness could save me.A pale wash of colour brushed across my lids, just enough to make my dark brown eyes look larger, more obedient.Lashes fanned thick and black, shadowing eyes that had already learned how to hold grief without spilling it.My lips were painted a muted rose, which felt wrong on me.Too hopeful.Too alive.
Black curls framed my face in glossy spirals, pinned back just enough to suggest restraint while still allowing a few rebellious strands to fall loose around my temples.They softened me, which felt like another quiet betrayal.Against my porcelain skin—too pale today, drained by dread—they looked almost violent.Like Medusa’s head.
The grief was there if you knew how to look.Etched in the tightness around my mouth.In the way my jaw stayed clenched, as though holding words I would never be allowed to speak.In my eyes, dark and steady and far too old for a woman about to be married.I looked like someone attending her own funeral—composed, respectful, already resigned.
There was a knock at the door—sharp, impatient.I already knew who it would be.
“It’s been more than five minutes, Mikayla,” my stepfather George said through the door.“The guests are seated.”
My fingers curled into fists.“I need more time.”
Fuck you, George.
A pause.Then his voice softened, trying to coax me out.“Don’t do this.Not today.”
Not today.As if there had ever been a day I could refuse him.
I opened the door.
My stepfather stood there in his dark suit, his jaw tight.He looked smaller than I remembered.Older.Weaker.And he couldn’t meet my gaze.
“You promised,” I said quietly.
“I know.”
“You promised me I wouldn’t have to do this.”
His shoulders sagged.“It’s only a marriage.”
