The next stage of preparations was worse.
Elina had barely recovered from the ordeal of choosing the wedding dress when her mother whisked her away to an exclusive, high-end salon—the kind of place where women walked in as themselves and walked out as polished versions moulded by society's cruel standards.
"You must look your best for your husband," Isabella Castellano declared as the sleek black saloon car pulled up to the towering glass doors.
Elina scoffed softly. "I didn't know this was a beauty factory."
"It's a refinement centre," Isabella replied coldly, her voice clipped and precise. "Try not to embarrass me by speaking like that inside. We're not in one of Rachel's orphanages, you know."
Inside, the air reeked of roses and chemicals. Soft classical music played in the background, a pretence of serenity that only heightened Elina's unease. The space gleamed—every surface white, silver, or gold. Too clean. Too quiet. Too cold.
"God," Elina muttered, blinking under the harsh overhead lights. "It's like stepping into a museum exhibit for women who don't age or breathe."
"I don't need all this," Elina muttered as they stepped inside. "It's just a wedding, not a coronation."
Isabella snapped, "You're about to become a Blackwood. Appearances matter. Presentation matters. If you can't understand that, at least pretend."
Before Elina could respond, a receptionist with perfectly styled hair and a surgically enhanced smile glided towards them. "Mrs Castellano, Miss Elina. We've been expecting you. The team is ready."
Elina sat stiffly in a plush chair as an army of stylists swarmed around her like vultures circling a kill.
A woman with manicured nails and a calculating gaze tilted her chin up. "Your features are delicate," she murmured. "But a little enhancement will bring out their full potential."
Elina raised an eyebrow. "Enhancement? Why does that sound like a threat?"
The woman chuckled. "Only to those afraid of change."
One stylist pulled a hot iron through her hair with clinical precision. Elina frowned at her reflection.
"My hair is already wavy," she muttered. "Why are you curling it again after straightening it?"
The stylist barely spared her a glance. "We need uniformity. Polished waves, not natural ones."
"So, real isn't good enough?" Elina asked, her voice edged with sarcasm.
Another stylist chimed in, her voice overly sweet. "Miss, it's all about the look. These curls will hold better in photos."
"Great," Elina said flatly. "Glad my follicles meet the aesthetic criteria."
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Her nails were next—filed into a perfect almond shape and painted a deep wine colour.
"I usually don't go for colours this dark," she tried again, her voice quieter now.
Isabella answered without looking up from her phone. "It's sophisticated. You want to look like Adrian Blackwood's wife, not a schoolgirl."
Elina's hands curled into her lap. "Right. Because apparently maturity is measured in nail polish."
A woman in a white coat approached, clipboard in hand.
"Laser hair removal," the woman announced casually, flipping through a set of notes. "Full body, including intimate areas."
Elina's heart stopped. "No." The word escaped before she could stop it.
Isabella's disapproving gaze cut across the room like a blade. "Don't be ridiculous, Elina. It's necessary."
Elina turned to her, disbelief flickering in her eyes. "Necessary? Why?"
The technician gave a soft, measured smile. "It's quite standard, especially for brides. It ensures everything looks flawless and feels comfortable… especially on such an important day."
Elina didn't respond. Her jaw tightened as she looked away.
Isabella rose and walked over, her tone soft but firm. "It's just a part of the process, darling. You'll thank me later. Every detail matters."
Elina's voice was low. "It feels invasive."
Isabella's hand brushed her shoulder. "I understand. But sometimes, a little discomfort now saves greater awkwardness later. Just trust the professionals."
The technician gave a slight, professional smile. "We'll be gentle, Miss Elina. You're in good hands—if you're ready?"
Elina stared at the floor for a long moment… then finally, wordlessly, stood.
The treatment room smelled of antiseptic and roses. She was told to strip and given a disposable robe that felt like paper.
The laser pulsed against her skin—sharp, searing, efficient. Each pass stripped away more than just hair. It stripped away her say. Her shape. Her shadow.
"Try to relax," the technician murmured.
"I'm fine," Elina replied curtly, jaw locked.
By the end, her skin had been scrubbed, exfoliated, massaged with expensive oils until it glowed. She was softer, cleaner, smoother. Exactly how Adrian wanted her.
But she had never felt more exposed in her life.
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Back in the chair, the makeup session began.
"I don't wear much makeup," Elina offered.
"That's perfectly fine," the stylist said cheerfully. "We'll keep it natural—you'll look divine."
Isabella looked up. "I won't have my daughter looking dull on the most important day of her life."
A smoky touch to her eyes. Lashes dark and thick. Contour to sharpen. Blush to soften. Lipstick as red as blood.
"Exquisite," a stylist declared.
Elina didn't answer. The face in the mirror was flawless. And foreign.
Her mother clapped her hands. "Perfect. From here, you'll head straight to the pre-wedding shoot."
Elina blinked. "What shoot?"
"Adrian arranged it. Don't act surprised. He wants the world to see what a stunning bride he has chosen."
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and a boutique assistant stepped in with a sleek garment bag. "From Mr Blackwood," she said, placing it in Elina's lap.
Elina's breath caught. She unzipped the bag.
Inside was a dress. Barely-there silk and lace. Thin straps. A plunging neckline. A dangerously high slit.
"I won't wear this," she whispered.
"You will," Isabella said simply. "You're his now. This is how brides dress."
Isabella's phone buzzed, interrupting the silence. She answered briskly, "Yes, Adrian. She's ready… Mm-hm. The dress just arrived."
She held the phone out to Elina. "He wants to talk to you."
Elina stared at the device as if it were a weapon. "I don't want to—"
"Don't be childish," Isabella said with finality. "Take it."
Elina took the phone and pressed it to her ear. "Hello?"
Adrian's voice was smooth. Too smooth. "I've chosen this dress for you. I expect you to wear it."
Elina's knuckles whitened around the phone. "I don't think it's the right choice for me."
"It's exactly what I want," he replied. "And you'll wear it. Just as you'll stand by me. It's what I expect."
The call ended.
She handed the phone back, heart heavy.
Isabella gestured. "Go on. Put on the dress. The car is waiting."
She didn't move.
"Elina," Isabella said sharply, "stop wasting everyone's time."
Elina rose. The dress still hung limply in her hands—a symbol of everything she was being forced to become.
A bride. A puppet. A possession. And there was no way out.
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