Bound by Honor *2ND DRAFT*

VII

April 26

Estella POV

The envelope was thick—too fancy for its own good, sealed with gold wax and the family crest that practically screamed "you can't say no." I turned it over in my hands a few times, as if shaking it might release a puff of smoke and a polite excuse to decline.

A gala. My first as a wife.

The words alone made my throat tighten a little. It wasn't fear—exactly. Just the slow, creeping awareness that I'd have to become someone again. Someone presentable. Charming. Touchable, even if no one actually would be.

I set the envelope on the vanity, right beside my perfume and all the other things meant to make me palatable. When I caught my reflection, I froze. There she was—the version of me everyone expected. Hair neat, lips glossed, posture like a princess who didn't know what heartbreak felt like.

But she didn't look like me. Not really. "Smile," I told her quietly. The woman in the mirror obeyed. It looked... foreign. Tight at the corners. Too much teeth, not enough heart. I tried again. Smaller. Softer. That one almost looked real—until I blinked and remembered why I'd stopped doing this years ago.

Because after that night, even my smile felt stolen.

It wasn't just fear that settled in me after the assault—it was the silence that followed. The way my body forgot how to look approachable without feeling exposed.

Every grin after that felt rehearsed, every laugh like it needed permission.

And standing here now, with that stupid invitation staring at me, I realized I was back at square one. Relearning a thing I used to do without thinking.

"I used to be good at this," I muttered to my reflection. "Now I just look like a malfunctioning Barbie."

"Can't confirm," a voice drawled from the doorway.

I startled, turning to find Malakai leaning against the frame. He looked maddeningly at ease, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking between me and the mirror.

"Were you watching me?" I asked, more defensive than I meant to sound.

He tilted his head. "Maybe. Hard to look away when someone's having a full-on staring contest with themselves."

I sighed. "I was practicing my smile."

"For the gala?"

"Mm-hmm. For the vultures." I mimicked his tone from last night, the word coming out a little too sharp, a little too amused.

He smirked at that. "You remembered."

"Hard to forget being compared to bird food."

"Didn't say you were the food," he said, stepping closer, his voice softening just enough to catch me off guard. "Just that people like to peck at things they don't understand."

I blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or roll my eyes. "That's poetic in a slightly threatening way." "Good. Keeps expectations low." He stopped beside me then, close enough for me to catch his cologne—something clean, quiet, like cedar and rain.

His reflection joined mine in the mirror, his posture straight and sure while mine looked like a question mark. "You don't have to perform, Stell," he said after a beat. "You just have to stand next to me. I'll handle the vultures." I looked at him in the mirror.

His eyes weren't mocking—they were steady. Familiar, even. Still, I forced a small, perfect smile, the kind that belonged in glossy magazines. "See?" I said softly. "All fixed." He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly—not in irritation, but something else. Something that saw too much. Then, almost to himself, he murmured, "That one's not you."