Caged Pheonix

"Stop acting like a nerd and put this on. I've had enough of your excuses."

Violet stood frozen before her mother, eyes lowered, fingers fidgeting as if searching for an invisible thread of courage—one more excuse to escape this nightmare masquerading as a wedding.

"Mom, I... I don’t want to get married. I—"

"And you think that matters?" her mother, Amelia Joseph, snapped, voice sharp as glass. "Violet, listen carefully. We didn’t adopt you so you could live in comfort without consequences. It’s time you paid us back. Your father needs this alliance with Mr. James William, and that means you marrying into their family. Have we ever treated you poorly? Didn’t we give you food, a home, clothes? This deal is crucial for our future. How can you be so selfish when everything is at stake?"

As her mother went on about our family, Violet felt a cold smile tug at her lips—bitter, knowing. She had never truly belonged. Yes, they hadn’t abused her, but love? That was never part of the arrangement. They had always made it clear: she could stay, as long as she didn’t speak too much, didn’t cause trouble. Adopted at fifteen, not for love, but for her beauty—an investment. A pawn. And now, it was time to collect.

"O-okay... I’ll d-do whatever you want."

Her mother’s expression softened into satisfaction. She gave a nod to the makeup artist standing by.

"Good. Make her beautiful. Whatever it takes--"

"Ma'am you have phone call from--"

One of their house maid came with a phone and before she could complete her sentence. Amelia snatched the phone.

"I need to take the call, you guys can continue."

The makeup artist nodded, gently ushering Violet toward the chair. As she sat down, her reflection stared back at her—painted, polished, and silent.

The makeup brush grazed her cheek like a butterfly's wing, but Violet felt it like a noose tightening around her throat. Her reflection in the mirror was pale, too still—like a ghost being painted to look alive.

"Beautiful," one of the artists murmured, unaware of the irony.

But Violet didn't see beauty. She saw a mask being built, layer by layer. A mask for a girl who was never really herself.

Her mind drifted back to the night they brought her home. She remembered the silence. Not the warm kind, but the type that suffocated. The way her adoptive father had studied her face like a merchant inspecting goods. The way her mother’s voice always dripped with sugar when guests were around—but tasted like poison when no one was listening.

They had always told her to be grateful. For the bed. The food. The clothes. Gratitude was expected, not affection. And now—marriage was her price tag.

She stared into the mirror, but the girl looking back felt unfamiliar. Her lips moved before her thoughts caught up.

"What kind of man agrees to marry a girl he’s never met?" she whispered, her voice too soft to hear.

But the