✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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My Dear Diary,
I've agreed to it. The deal is going to be done, the trap is set. I'm going to marry a stranger. Vidyut. The name itself feels foreign on my tongue. He's not my type. Not that I've ever allowed myself to have a 'type.' My life has been so meticulously planned, every decision a calculated step towards a singular goal: freedom. And yet, here I am, about to make the most monumental decision of my life for that very same purpose. Today, I'm meeting him for the final discussion, the one where we will lay out the terms of our little farce. The very thought of it makes my stomach churn.
I'm doing this for a purpose that is both noble and selfish. Noble because it is my only way out of this gilded cage, my only chance to build a life free from the shadow of my father's lies. Selfish because the price I am paying is a part of my soul. I'm trading my freedom for a fake life, a temporary lie that will, I hope, lead to a permanent escape. I've heard he's a fashion designer, a billionaire. The kind of man who lives in a world of art and beauty, a world so far removed from my own reality of life and death, of blood and bone, of the cold, hard truths of the human condition. I'm afraid of what he will see in me, what he will uncover. Will he see the doctor, the professional, or the scared, angry girl who lives in a house of horrors?
I need this to work. I need to get away. I can't live like this anymore. I can't breathe in this house. This place, these walls, they are a constant reminder of the day my life shattered. This marriage is my only key to the door of freedom, and I will do whatever it takes to turn it.
I closed the diary and pushed it back into the secret compartment in my desk drawer. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I had to get ready. I had to face this. I had to put on a show.
I went to my closet and pulled out a simple, elegant white dress. It was a stark contrast to my usual sterile scrubs and professional attire, a symbol of the persona I was about to adopt. I smoothed the fabric, a pure, unblemished white that felt like a lie against my skin. I did my hair and make-up, a meticulous process of painting on a face of calm and grace. The woman in the mirror was a stranger, a beautiful, poised creature who bore no resemblance to the frightened girl I was inside.
