Chapter 10 - A Wedding for Ayra Russo (1)

The hours slipped by like sand through her fingers. Her isolation was suffocating as always, yet she clung to the small lifeline Eleanor had given her. 

Her aunt’s messages arrived sporadically, their delivery concealed in the meticulous work of the maid. 

A folded napkin, a hollowed-out bread roll, a ribbon tied too tightly around a gift - her messages came in the details, as it were, and Ayra simply had to admire the woman's level of innovation. 

Eleanor’s plans for the escape were detailed and intricate in their design. She had secured a safehouse - somewhere Ayra could be hidden for a while once she made her escape. 

It was an ostentatious villa in the middle of the city, but Eleanor and Ayra both agreed that it was best to hide right beneath their noses until Ayra could leave the city entirely. 

The city’s roads were mapped, the hidden back alleys and lesser-known paths highlighted on a series of papers Eleanor had sent. 

Ayra had made sure to burn them all - they were just there to placate her after all, to assure her that there WAS a plan in place. 

'You will be out of their reach,' Eleanor’s notes promised.

And yet, despite the careful blueprint laid out before her, Ayra’s mind churned with doubt. She has a nagging suspicion that following the plan would not end exactly as she wished. 

Her aunt’s messages always carried the edge of calm authority, but even they could not quite quell Ayra’s rising anxiety. 

Eleanor assured her that everything was under control, yet Ayra couldn’t shake the unease that something could go terribly wrong.

And by the way, she only needed Eleanor's help to escape the wedding venue. She had her plan. 

Her brief stint outside was not just for show, after all. It is often said that to deceive someone, you must first deceive yourself. 

Well, Ayra certainly couldn't deceive herself - she had to know the plan after all - but she could do the next best thing. Deceive her 'partner' as it were. 

One particular note brought more than just instructions. It contained an explanation—a revelation that added another layer of bitterness to her situation.

Lucian, it seemed, had been busy elsewhere, consumed by matters Eleanor couldn’t fully disclose. 

That was why he had postponed the wedding, not out of hesitation or concern, but because he simply couldn’t spare the time.

Ayra’s lips pressed into a thin line as she read the words. Busy. 

The idea was that he had postponed their wedding not because he questioned its morality or because he wanted to give her more time.

But because she, seemingly, wasn’t even worth his attention, left her feeling hollow and angry. 

Here she was turning her brain till it turned to mush and poring over aerial shots of the wedding venue to escape his clutches, and what? 

He goes on a damn business trip?! Sipping a martini somewhere no doubt and having whatever model he fancied dangling off his arm. 

It made her more angry than she would let on.  

There were whispers from her aunt about the delay in the wedding - Lucian would be absent from it, it seemed, and Ayra found herself with one less thing to worry about. 

Lucian was still occupied with something important, Eleanor had explained, and it was for that reason he had postponed the ceremony.

It was certainly good news. At least half the trepidation Ayra had been feeling was from Lucian's presence. 

Everyone painted him out to be some form of monster and she did not want to test it. 

But the wedding was still on. No delay would stop it. Her father’s pressure on Lucian was unrelenting. 

Everything had been arranged, the guests invited, the venue set. The wedding would happen soon, with or without Lucian. 

And for all his cold detachment, her father knew what he was doing—he would force Lucian’s hand. 

The deal, after all, was too valuable for him to let it slip away, whatever it was. 

Her father’s disregard for her autonomy stung more with each passing day. 

To be married off like an object, to be traded for power and money—was this truly all she was worth? 

Ayra’s anger was a fire that burned low in her chest, simmering with each passing hour. How could he force her into this? 

How could he force her to marry a man she barely knew, a man who had no interest in her, only in the arrangement?

The hurt ran deeper than she cared to admit. Somewhere deep down she had hoped for her father to come in one day and be like: "April Fools!!"

Never mind that April was long since gone. 

It made Ayra sick. 

The feeling of being controlled, the feeling that she was just a piece of his game, the feeling that he didn't care - it tore heavily at her spirit. 

And in the quiet spaces of her mind, when the guards were absent and the house had gone silent, Ayra began to realize, with burgeoning dread:

Her father was the one who truly imprisoned her. And it was her father who had forced her into this marriage, regardless of her feelings.

And Lucian was not a prince charming, not the hero who would swoop in and save her. She'd had her prince. Heavens know where he is now. 

She found herself staring out the window for moments on end, reminiscing about the past. 

....

The wedding was rescheduled, and a definite date was given for the ceremony. 

One night, after the guards had come to take her to her room for the night, the maid slipped Ayra a burner phone that Eleanor had provided, along with a fresh note from her aunt. 

Eleanor had reiterated the details of the escape route, and Ayra allowed herself a brief moment of relief. 

The plan was sound, and the safehouse was waiting. Eleanor would also be watching and would use the phone to give her the details on the D-Day in case anything changed. 

She would need to deceive Eleanor into thinking everything was going according to plan, while in reality, she would strike out on her own. 

She would use her aunt's help to slip away, but the route she took would be different from the one her aunt had suggested. Oh very different. 

....

The mansion was a flurry of activity as preparations for the wedding ramped up. 

Staff bustled about, their movements hurried and precise as they worked to ensure every detail was perfect.

Ayra observed it all with a detached sense of dread. The wedding wasn’t for her—it was for her father, for Lucian, for the alliance they sought to forge. 

She was merely the means to an end.

Her dress arrived one morning, a vision of pristine white lace and satin. The sight of it made her stomach churn. 

It was beautiful, yes, but it felt more like a prison than a celebration.

The maids fussed over her, taking measurements and adjusting the fit of the gown for hours on end. 

Ayra stood still, her face carefully blank as they worked.

Patience, she reminded herself. Play the part. 

She loved the gown - she did not like what it represented.