The Ice Queen and the Playboy Protector

Sia’s P.O.V

The wedding dress was beautiful.

It was everything a sixteen-year-old girl would have dreamed of wearing one day. Layers of delicate ivory lace cascaded to the polished wooden floor, tiny pearls shimmered beneath the soft light, and the long train spread behind me like a river of silk. Someone had woven fresh white roses into my dark hair, and the diamond earrings hanging from my ears sparkled every time I moved.

I looked like a princess.

I felt like a sacrifice.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it, leaving a glistening trail through the careful layers of foundation painted onto my skin. I wiped it away with trembling fingers, but another followed, then another, until I was silently crying into my lap.

Outside the bridal chamber, I could hear the faint melody of the church organ warming up.

The guests were arriving. Every note sounded like another step toward the end of my life.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe if I prayed hard enough, something would happen.

Maybe Dad would change his mind. Maybe the groom would never show up. Maybe someone would realize how wrong this was.

Maybe...

The silk of the bridal gown felt heavy and suffocating against my skin now. I sat on the edge of the velvet vanity stool in the bridal chamber, my breath coming in jagged, silent hitches. I looked at the girl in the mirror—a stranger.

I was a child playing dress-up in a nightmare.

The tears had been flowing for hours, carving hot tracks through the thick layer of foundation and powder. I didn't care. My chest felt like it was being crushed by an invisible weight.

For weeks, I had fought. I had screamed until my throat was raw, begged until I had no words left, and eventually, I had tried to run. I had packed a small bag and made it as far as the edge of the estate before the security guards, acting on my father's orders, had dragged me back by my arms.

The punishment for my rebellion had been swift and absolute. I was ripped out of school, my books burned, and I was placed under house arrest. My phone was gone, my door was locked from the outside, and the only people I saw were the maids who looked at me with a mixture of pity and fear.

My father had made it clear: I was no longer a daughter; I was a transaction.

The door creaked open, and my mother stepped in. She was beaming, her eyes glittering with a superficial excitement that made my stomach churn. But as soon as her gaze landed on me, the smile vanished. Her face contorted into a mask of irritation.

"For heaven's sake, Sia!" she snapped, rushing toward me.

She didn't ask why I was crying. She didn't embrace me or tell me it would be okay. Instead, she grabbed my chin with a grip that was far too tight, tilting my head back to inspect the damage. "Look at your face! You've ruined the makeup. Do you have any idea how much the stylist cost?"

She began hastily dabbing at my cheeks with a sponge, her movements rough and impatient. "Stop this immediately. Stop acting so miserable. You look stunning, and you are about to enter a world most girls can only dream of."

"I don't want it," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sixteen, Mom. Please... please don't make me do this."

My mother paused, her eyes narrowing. "Adrian Stone is a wonderful man. He is sophisticated, powerful, and incredibly wealthy. He isn't just going to take care of you; he is the only reason your father's company isn't circling the drain. He is saving us all."

"I don't care about the company," I sobbed, the dam finally breaking. "I hate him! I don't even know him! I just want to go back to school. I want my life back!"

"Your life is what we make of it!" she hissed. "Do you want us to go bankrupt? Do you want to see your father humiliated? Do you want us to beg on the streets, sleeping in shelters because you were too stubborn to play your part?"

I looked her in the eye, the desperation turning into a flicker of raw defiance. "Yes," I choked out. "I would rather beg on the streets than be sold to a stranger."

The sound of the slap echoed through the room.

The force of it snapped my head to the side, leaving my cheek stinging and hot. I gasped, clutching my face, staring at her in shock. My mother didn't look remorseful; she looked disgusted.

"You ungrateful, selfish little brat," she spat, her voice low and dangerous. "You think only of yourself. You think your 'feelings' matter more than the survival of this family? You will walk down that aisle, you will smile, and you will do everything in your power to please that man. Do you understand me?"

I couldn't speak. I could only tremble.

The ride to the chapel was a blur of grey skies and suffocating silence. When we arrived, the air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and funeral lilies.

We stood just outside the heavy oak doors of the church. My father finally approached me. He didn't look at my eyes; he looked at the lace of my veil, as if I were a piece of furniture he was preparing to deliver.

He took my hand almost like it was an obligation. His grip wasn't comforting; it was a command.

"Make my friend happy, Sia," he murmured, his voice devoid of any fatherly warmth. "Don't embarrass me. Just be compliant, and perhaps your life won't be as difficult as it needs to be."

A wave of nausea rolled over me. I felt a physical urge to throw up right there on the pristine stone path.

The betrayal felt like a physical wound, a jagged tear in my chest that would never heal. These were the people who had raised me, the people who were supposed to protect me from the world, and yet they were the ones handing me over to the wolf.

The doors swung open.

The interior of the chapel was dim, lit by flickering candles that cast long, dancing shadows against the walls. There were very few people in attendance—only a handful of business associates and distant relatives.

As I walked down the aisle, the silence was oppressive. I could feel their eyes on me, and for the first time, I saw it: pity.

They knew. They knew I was a child. They knew I was being sacrificed. And yet…they said nothing.

And then, I saw him.

Adrian Stone stood at the altar. He was thirty-five, nearly double my age, with a sharp, tailored suit and a gaze that felt like a predator marking its territory. He wasn't frowning; he was smiling.

It wasn't a smile of love or kindness; it was the smile of a man who had just won a prized possession at an auction. He looked at me not as a bride, but as a trophy—something beautiful, fragile, and entirely his.

My father reached the altar and, without a single word of farewell or a lingering glance, handed my hand over to Adrian. The transition was seamless, a business deal finalized in a heartbeat. My father stepped back and retreated, leaving me alone in the grip of a stranger.

The priest began the vows, his voice a droning hum in the background.

I stopped listening. I looked past Adrian, scanning the small crowd, my eyes wide and pleading.

I looked at my mother, but she was looking away. I looked at the guests, hoping—praying—that someone would stand up. That someone would say this was wrong. That someone would grab my hand and pull me out of this nightmare.

But no one moved. No one spoke. The world remained silent, complicit in my destruction.

As Adrian leaned in, his breath warm and smelling of expensive cologne against my ear, he whispered something I’ll never forget.

"You're even more delicious than the photos, Sia. I can't wait to get you alone."

A shiver of pure terror raced down my spine. In that moment, as the priest declared us husband and wife, the light in my world went out.

I learned the most cruel lesson of my life that day: that sometimes, the people meant to protect you are the ones who hurt you the most.