Stealing My Rival's Bride At The Altar

Clara POV:

I sat before the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror, a doll in a Vera Wang gown. Perfect. Flawless. An exquisite puppet ready for the show.

The makeup artist leaned in, swiping a final coat of gloss onto my lips. The red was the color of blood. My stomach churned.

I forced a deep breath, but the air was thick with the scent of lilies and roses. The wedding's theme flowers. They were supposed to smell like romance. Instead, they smelled cloyingly sweet, like a funeral home.

The door swished open and my mother, Genevieve Montgomery, swept in. She was a vision in a Chanel suit, her smile as perfect and unyielding as her posture.

"Oh, Clara, my darling," she breathed, circling me as if I were a prize-winning sculpture. "You are simply breathtaking."

Her praise was a cold, smooth stone in my gut. It wasn't warmth; it was an appraisal. A confirmation that her investment had yielded a perfect return.

I tried to smile back, but my facial muscles were frozen. It came out as a twitch.

She didn't notice. Or she didn't care. Her gaze drifted to the window overlooking the manicured hotel grounds. "Look at that crowd. TMZ, People magazine... every major outlet is here. This will be the wedding of the decade."

Her words were a hammer blow to my chest. My hands, hidden in the folds of my dress, clenched into fists. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the spinning room.

This was a performance. I was the lead actress. And there was no escape.

A stylist stepped forward and placed the Cartier-sponsored diamond tiara on my head. The cold metal against my skin made me flinch.

It wasn't a crown. It was a beautiful, glittering cage.

Ford's face flashed in my mind. That handsome, celebrated face that made me want to vomit.

A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I swallowed it down. Hard. I couldn't be sick. Not now. Not in this armor.

My mother was still talking, excitedly detailing the seating chart for the reception, ensuring every sponsor and key media figure had a prime view.

My existence, it seemed, was merely the most valuable prop in her grand PR production.

I stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror had wide, terrified blue eyes. A rabbit caught in a snare.

I quickly looked down at my lap, afraid someone would see the secret screaming in my gaze.

How did I get here?

The question echoed in the hollow space where my heart should be. The answer only brought more despair.

Because I am Clara Montgomery. The pop star who always smiles, who is always perfect. I am not allowed to disappoint anyone.

My mother patted my shoulder, her touch light and dismissive. "Alright, darling. Chin up. Your groom is waiting."

The word 'groom' was a viper's bite. My stomach dropped.

I nodded mechanically, a wind-up toy set in motion.

The makeup artists and stylists murmured their congratulations. "You look so beautiful, Ms. Montgomery." "Congratulations on your big day."

Their blessings sounded like curses.

My mother's PR assistant whispered something in her ear, and Genevieve's smile widened.

"All the major networks are ready for the live broadcast," she announced, her voice ringing with pride.

The world tilted. The sounds around me faded to a dull buzz.

My only thought was: run.

But my feet were lead weights, bolted to the floor.

The suite door opened softly. It was my maid of honor, my best friend, Elara.

She stood in the doorway, a bright smile on her face.

Then her eyes met mine, and her smile froze.

She was, perhaps, the only person in the world who could see the cracks in my mask.