Chapter Text
All your life, you were meant to be only one thing: Gojo Satoru's bride.
The role was drilled into you, laid over your childhood like an unnegotiable destiny. Long before you could reliably add numbers or write your own name without smudges and wobbly letters.
"My beautiful baby," your mother would murmur, fingers gently stroking your hair, "you're going to be a perfect bride."
To the little you, being a bride sounded magical. Wasn't it just like the princesses in your picture books? A breathtaking dress, a sparkling ceremony, and the handsome prince waiting at the end of the aisle.
That illusion held until the day you finally met your intended future husband—Gojo Satoru.
The instant your eyes landed on him, it felt like the stars themselves had stepped down to stand in front of you. To your seven-year-old heart, he wasn't merely a prince from a fairy tale.
He was better.
You dipped into a careful curtsy the way you'd practiced in front of your mirror, fingers delicately lifting the skirt of your favorite dress—the one you'd begged your mother to let you wear because today was the day you'd finally meet Satoru.
He barely spared you a glance.
"My mom had this dress made just for me," you announced brightly as you sat down across from him, "so I could look like a real princess."
You didn't notice the bored tilt of his head or the way his eyes slid past you like you were furniture. To a seven-year-old you, he was still perfect.
Then, he opened his mouth.
"It's ugly."
The word landed like a slap. You frowned, heat rising in your cheeks as he shrugged one lazy shoulder and reached for a pastel macaron from the tiered tray the chef had set out for your "play date."
"It's not," you shot back, voice small but fierce.
For a heartbeat, you thought you caught something flickering in those impossibly blue eyes. Something sharp and boyishly wicked. Then your hot chocolate simply tipped over. No one touched the cup. It just fell, steaming brown liquid blooming across the pristine white fabric of your skirt, soaking through in dark, spreading patches.
"It's ugly now."
The mischief finally broke across his face in a wide, delighted grin—the first real smile he'd given you all afternoon.
You shot to your feet, tears stinging hot behind your eyes. Before you could think, your small hand had already fisted a thick handful of his snow-white hair and yanked. After that, everything blurred into chaos: shouts, overturned chairs, the sting of your own sobs. You only remember his grin stretching wider, gleeful, almost proud, as strong arms lifted you off the floor and carried you away.
Back home, your mother's face was thunder. She hissed through clenched teeth that you were to behave next time, that you must never, ever disrespect Gojo Satoru. Then she marched you straight to your room and locked the door.
You stood there in the middle of the rug, still wearing the ruined dress, crumpled, no longer anything like a princess's gown, listening to the click of the lock and the echo of your own hiccuping breaths.
Ever since that day, the fairy-tale shimmer faded bit by bit, and you began to understand the grim shape of your future.
Being a bride wasn't the glittering adventure of princess stories. One wrong move, one flash of temper, and your mother's wrath descended like a storm. Endless lessons followed: posture, poise, polite conversation, the art of silent endurance, all designed to mold you into the perfect bride. Above all, you learned to swallow every petty cruelty Satoru tossed your way, because it was painfully clear: he didn't care for you. Not even a little. He wanted you gone, out of his sight, a nuisance to be prodded until you cracked.
"He's only a child," your mother would say, wiping your tears with the same hands that had just punished you for daring to cry in front of him. "By the time he grows up, he'll learn to treat you like the princess you are. You two are meant to be together. You still want to be his princess, don't you?"
Her words were meant to soothe, but they only stung deeper. You were a child, too. Yet, you were expected to sit still while he did whatever he pleased, just because boredom had settled over him like a crown.
Your small hands curled into tight fists under the table as another candy pelted your shoulder, then your cheek. He flicked them lazily, watching for the flinch, the reddening eyes, the barely-held-back sob, fishing for any reaction to amuse himself. When the next one stung sharper than the last, something inside you snapped. You started to rise from your chair, chair legs scraping the floor—
A soft cough from across the room stopped you cold.
Terror prickled up your spine. You froze, then slowly sank back down.
You stole a glance at your mother. She sat with perfect composure, lips curved in a gentle, approving smile.
Be the perfect bride, she mouthed silently, the words clear as any spoken command.
You comply, for all you know, that's the only role you will ever be since you were born.