Orla:

  The day blurred into an endless cycle of bowing, nodding, and whispered commands I barely understood. The thick veil covering my face turned the world around me into nothing but shadows and muffled voices. The older servant, whom I’d learned was called Gyeong, had spent what felt like hours drilling etiquette into me earlier that morning—half of which I promptly forgot. Before I could process anything, I was wrapped up, veiled, and pushed into the grand hall for the wedding.

  The veil was suffocating, part of this world’s tradition—or so they claimed—that I had no say in. As a secondary wife, I was to remain unseen during the ceremony and celebrations. Gyeong explained it all in her sharp, no-nonsense tone—something about warding off evil spirits, protecting the bride from jealous rivals, or some other outdated superstition.

  It didn’t sound like any real Korean tradition, at least not one I’d ever heard of. But then again, I wasn’t exactly an expert. Maybe this was some obscure custom, or maybe it was just one of those strange, twisted rules unique to this world.

  All I knew was that I felt buried beneath layers of silk and expectation, trapped in a role I never wanted.

  Through the fine fabric, I caught glimpses of figures bowing and murmuring, but it all felt distant, unreal. Gyeong’s voice guided me through every movement, every act of submission I was expected to perform. Each moment pushed me further into a reality I couldn’t escape. My chest tightened as I thought, was this what my real wedding with Logan would’ve been like? Hidden, suffocating, inescapable?

  The hours dragged on, and my body ached from the endless kneeling, bowing, and stillness. I had no sense of time, only that suddenly, I was being nudged to my feet and led away.

  I followed blindly, Gyeong’s firm grip on my arm the only thing keeping me steady as we wound through the palace corridors and outdoor courtyards. The stone pathways blurred together in my exhausted mind. My stomach twisted when I realized where they were taking me.

  The king’s chambers.

  Gyeong loosened her hold as we reached the entrance, then stepped out, along with the other servants. I stood there, suddenly alone, my pulse hammering. This was it. The veil still clung to my face, the weight of expectation pressing heavier than ever.

  But I couldn’t breathe. I needed air. I needed to see.

  Ignoring every lesson drilled into me, I reached up and pulled the veil off my head. Cool air hit my skin, bringing only a brief moment of relief before something else caught my eye—the ornate mirror across the room.

  I stepped toward it, drawn in by the delicate carvings around its frame. But when I looked at my reflection, my stomach dropped.

  It was me. But not me.

  I wasn’t in the heavy ceremonial robes. I was back in San Francisco, at the Ashcroft Estate, dressed in my wedding gown—the one I had chosen for Logan. Off-the-shoulder lace, my hair cascading in soft waves, makeup flawless. But the woman in the mirror looked lost, just as I felt now.

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  It was like staring at a version of myself from another time, another life. A life that now felt impossibly far away.

  I reached out, fingers trembling, as if touching the mirror would somehow pull me back. Back to the life I understood. But then I remembered—I had seen her before. This version of myself. The queen, or at least I thought she was a queen. Could this be it? The moment in time where both worlds blurred together? But why?

  And then it hit me—I wasn’t married yet.

  I wanted to scream at her, at me, to tell her what was coming. That Logan was about to betray her—betray me. That everything she thought was real was about to shatter.

  But just then, A voice shattered the illusion.

  “His Majesty, the King!”

  Panic shot through me. I draped the veil back onto my head, rushing to the edge of the bed platform, hands trembling as I positioned myself as Gyeong had instructed. My heart pounded as footsteps echoed outside.

  Then, the door creaked open.

  Drunken laughter hit me first. Someone was giggling, trying—and failing—to stifle it. The king mumbled something I couldn’t make out, his steps heavy and uneven.

  But that voice—

  I knew it. A voice I’d listened to for years, one that had once been familiar, comforting even.

  Logan.

  My blood ran cold.

  I strained to see through the veil, but the fabric blurred my vision. Still, I knew. I knew that voice. My entire body went rigid.

  The king—Logan—stumbled closer, his breath thick with alcohol. My chest tightened as his shadow loomed over me.

  Then, with a clumsy eagerness, he reached down and lifted my veil.

  And there he was.

  Logan Park, looking right at me, glassy-eyed, smiling that same dumb smile. It was him. But it wasn’t. Something was off. Something was wrong.

  “Ah, my lovely bride,” he slurred, reaching for my chin.

  I wanted to scream, to run, to shove him away, but I was frozen.

  His fingers grazed my cheek, heavy and unsteady. “So... beautiful…” he muttered, his breath warm and laced with liquor. His touch, his voice—it all felt familiar, yet completely foreign.

  Then, without warning, his eyes rolled back, and his entire body collapsed onto me.

  “Ugh!” His weight nearly crushing me against the sleeping mat, his ceremonial robes dragging him further down. I struggled beneath him, gasping as I tried to push him off, but he was heavy, limp. Dead weight.

  “Come on... move...” I grunted, managing to shift him just enough to roll him onto his side. He sprawled across the mat, arm dangling off the edge of the platform, smacking his lips in drunken sleep. A low snore escaped him.

  I stared at him, my heart racing.

  If this wasn’t Logan, then who the hell was he?

  Everything about him—the way he looked, smelled, even the way he carried himself—was the same. Too similar to be a coincidence. But how?

  I backed away, my legs shaking as I stumbled into the farthest corner of the room. This wasn’t real. None of this was real.

  A sick joke. A twisted nightmare.

  But the suffocating silence of the room told me otherwise. There was no way out of this. No waking up. No escaping.

  I wrapped my arms around myself, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Panic clawed at my throat, and for the first time, I let the fear take over. The tears I’d been holding back spilled free, quiet sobs shaking my frame.

  “Milo...” I whispered before I could stop myself. The only name I wanted to say. The only person I wished would find me.

  But he wasn’t here.

  The walls pressed in tighter, the weight of reality suffocating me. Logan—or whoever he was—was only inches away, snoring, unaware of the nightmare unraveling in my mind.

  I curled in on myself, rocking slightly, trying to anchor myself to something real. But there was nothing. Nothing but the cold, crushing truth.

  I was trapped.

  Trapped in this palace. Trapped in this life. Trapped with no way out.

  ?Sky Mincharo