The maids moved like silent shadows, guiding Elva out of the bedroom and into the vast marble corridor of the Salvatore mansion.
The floor beneath her heels was polished to such a high shine that it looked like dark, still water. Massive oil paintings of stern ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following her every move. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen rain, casting a cold, brilliant light over everything.
Elva barely saw the luxury. All she could feel was the weight of the dress. It wasn't just the heavy silk or the silver threads; it was the weight of the name she was stealing. Every time the sapphire fabric brushed against the floor, it reminded her that she was Victoria Rodriguez to the world, and a nameless ghost to herself.
Her steps were slow and hesitant. She had never worn a gown this long or this grand, and the sheer volume of the skirt felt like a trap for her feet.
"Steady, Madam," one of the maids whispered, reaching out to tuck a stray fold of silk aside so Elva wouldn't trip. "Small, slow steps. Let the dress flow with you."
Elva nodded, her throat tight. "Okay," she whispered.
They reached the top of the grand staircase. It was a massive curve of white stone and gold railings that swept down into the main hall like a frozen wave. Elva paused at the edge, looking down into the heart of the mansion.
The ground floor felt miles away. Her stomach twisted into a nervous knot. She knew who was waiting down there. Matthew's parents, his extended family, and the army of servants who kept this fortress running. To them, she was the prize of the Rodriguez family. To them, she was the woman who had captured the heart of the Great Commander.
Her hands turned ice-cold. Sensing her fear, the maid beside her leaned in close. "Do not worry, Madam. You look like royalty. Just keep your head high."
They began the descent. Step by painful step, Elva moved down the marble stairs. The sapphire silk trailed behind her, shimmering under the lights. Despite the magnificent dress, she felt incredibly small. Her 164 cm frame seemed fragile against the towering pillars and the endless ceilings.
As they reached the final few steps, the muffled sound of voices drifted from the open doors of the dining hall. There were deep, masculine tones and the soft clink of silverware against china.
Elva's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that made her dizzy.
The head maid stepped forward, her voice ringing out through the hall with professional clarity. "Madam Victoria has arrived."
The conversation inside the room stopped instantly. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of a dozen expectant gazes.
Elva lowered her eyes, her long lashes shadowing her pale cheeks. She took a deep breath, trying to summon the confidence of the girl she was supposed to be. She straightened her back, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt.
She walked toward the doorway, her heart thudding in her ears. Somewhere in that room, behind the fine wine and the expensive flowers, Matthew Salvatore was waiting. And he was the only one who knew that the "royal" bride was nothing more than a frightened girl in a borrowed dress.