Optimus Prime.

She stood in front of a tall mirror in the church sacristy.
A flowing veil, secured with a hundred invisible pins, fell from her heavy, jet-black head of hair to the floor, covering her shoulders and back in sheer muslin. Her white dress, embroidered with pearls and lace, fitted her perfectly, making her figure tall, regal, almost statuesque.

She looked at her reflection and felt a hellish mixture of disgust and doom boiling inside her. Her face was flawless: deep, black eyeliner, fluffy, frighteningly long eyelashes, matte dark lips.
The perfect image. The perfect doll.

Behind the door, the hall buzzed. Guests, laughter, the clinking of glasses. My father was yelling at the organizers. And Andrei, standing in the corner of the hallway, spoke into the phone, his voice clear:

— She won't flinch. After the banquet, I'll calm her down. I'll buy her whatever she wants. She'll shut up.

Aurora heard every word. Her long, sharp, pitch-black nails dug into the hem of her white dress. Her shoulders shook. Heavy tears spilled from her eyes, smearing her perfect eyeliner across her cheekbones.

She began to cry—not quietly, but heartbreakingly, like an older sister who can no longer bear the burden. Her sisters were weak, her mother was afraid, and her father had sold her out to pay her debts. She cried for them all.

But she didn't wipe her face. She didn't want to ruin her look. The black mascara streaks on her cheeks made her face even more tragic, even more beautiful. She picked up her old, heavy travel bag.

The make-up artists came out.

Aurora looked down at her feet. She was wearing towering white platforms with sky-high heels, her ankles encircled by heavy, shimmering crystal chains. They rang like a funeral bell with the slightest movement.

(This isn't my bot, I took it from Emoji. Come up with your own role.)