– Aria –

The veil felt heavier than it should.

Maybe it was the weight of the fabric. Or maybe it was the suffocating truth that I was about to marry a man I’d spent years learning to fear. Either way, my spine aches from sitting in the same rigid pose for too long. The makeup artist had insisted I sit still. She said one wrong movement could ruin the flawless work she'd spent an hour perfecting.

It didn’t matter. No amount of powder or blush could hide the hollowness in my eyes.

"You look stunning," she said softly, stepping back to admire her work.

I forced a polite nod, but didn’t speak. I couldn’t. If I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out—gratitude, fear, or the scream that had been lodged in my throat since yesterday.

My gaze drifted back to the mirror. The girl staring back at me was a stranger. Her eyes were sharp, outlined in kohl. Her lips, red like a warning sign. Her dress, ivory and delicate and completely wrong for the battlefield she was about to walk into.

A bride.

No. A pawn.

That’s what I am now.

Three days ago, my brother came home bleeding.

Three days ago, I learned just how far my family had fallen from grace.

I hadn’t seen the hit coming. One moment, I was preparing for a job interview at a publishing firm downtown. Next, I was cleaning blood off the tile floor while my aunt wept in the next room.

Luca had tried to run. He owed money to the wrong people—people who didn't leave warnings. They left bodies.

And the man he stole from?

Damian Moretti.

The name alone made me cold.

He was the heir to the Moretti empire—part mafia, part corporate tycoon, entirely untouchable. We weren’t supposed to breathe the same air as men like him. But we did. And my brother had stolen from him. Stupid. Desperate. Naive.

He nearly paid for it with his life.

Instead, I paid for it with mine.

The knock on the door was light, almost respectful.

My aunt entered without waiting for a response. She looked older than she had three days ago—lines etched deeper into her forehead, her eyes darker beneath the weight of sleepless nights. Her hands clutched a small, satin clutch.

“Time,” she said gently. “They’re ready.”

I swallowed. My throat was dry.

“Is Luca here?” I asked.

She nodded. “He’s sitting in the second row. Moretti insisted he be visible.”

Of course he did.

He wanted a reminder in the crowd. A symbol of why I said yes.

I rose slowly, letting the train of the gown cascade behind me like a ghost’s shadow. Every step toward the door felt final. The air in the hallway was cooler than the dressing suite. It smelled like gardenias and wax—luxury and mourning all at once.

We walked in silence through the east wing of the estate. The Moretti mansion was massive, colder than I expected. All marble floors and gothic windows, like it had been built to keep things in—not out.

“Aria,” my aunt whispered, as we reached the doors to the ballroom. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” I cut in gently. “I already did.”

She looked away. I didn’t blame her. No one could look directly at something that had already been sacrificed.

The ballroom was packed.

Elegant men and women in black and gold sat like judges, silent and watching. Everything shimmered—crystal chandeliers, gilded sconces, the icy smile on Damian’s face.

He stood at the altar, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a jet-black suit. No boutonnière. No softness. Just danger, wrapped in Armani.

He didn’t look at me when I entered. Not right away. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, unmoved. Uncaring.

Each step down the aisle echoed.

I tried not to look at anyone. Not my brother. Not the priest. Not the woman near the front who I was sure had once dated him and was now silently gloating.

Only him.

Only the man who had offered me a contract instead of a proposal.

My hands trembled. I gripped the bouquet tighter.

Halfway down, Damian’s eyes finally met mine. The impact was immediate—sharp, like an arrow loosed into my ribs. There was no warmth in that gaze. Only calculation. Control. A dare.

I lifted my chin higher. If I was going to sell my soul, I could at least look like I still owned it.

The priest began speaking, but I heard nothing. His words washed over me like wind through a hollow room.

I focused on Damian instead.

Up close, he was even more intimidating. His jaw was cut from stone. His expression is unreadable. I wondered if he even knew how to smile, or if his mouth only moved when he gave orders.

His eyes traveled over my face—slow, clinical, almost curious.

“You wore white,” he murmured under his breath.

“You insisted on a church,” I whispered back. “Don’t play innocent.”

A flash of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. It vanished just as quickly.

“Do you, Aria Monroe,” the priest asked, “take Damian Alessandro Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold—”

“Yes,” I said, before he could finish.

I didn’t wait. I didn’t breathe. I just said the word and waited for it to crash into me.

It didn’t.

The crash came when he said it back.

“I do.”

Cold. Controlled. Certain.

There it was.

The vow that bound me to the man who once swore to destroy my family.

The ring was heavy. Too tight. His fingers lingered just a second too long as he slid it onto mine. A possessive gesture, subtle and intentional. I didn’t flinch.

I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Oh God.

His hand found my waist, pulling me forward. I stiffened, and his grip tightened slightly, a warning masked as affection. His mouth brushed mine—barely. A whisper of heat. Just enough to be seen. Just enough to remind me who was in control.

The room erupted in polite applause. Like we’d just performed a scene from a play.

Like this was real.

Like anyone here believed we’d ever choose this.

We walked out of the ballroom hand in hand.

His grip never loosened. His thumb grazed the back of my palm once. I couldn’t tell if it was a threat or... something else.

Outside, photographers snapped photos for the Moretti family archive. Damian posed like he was born for it. I kept my smile neutral, my posture perfect. Like he told me.

We didn’t speak again until we were inside the car.

The doors shut. The silence closed in.

“You didn’t cry,” he said, voice unreadable.

“Would it have pleased you if I did?”

He turned to me. “No. I don’t like messy women.”

I laughed. It came out more bitter than I meant.

“Then you married the wrong one.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Did I?”

Our eyes locked. And something shifted. Just for a second.

But then he looked away, pulling out his phone like I wasn’t sitting beside him in the dress he’d paid for. I turned to the window, blinking back a sudden sting in my throat.

The city blurred by. Glass towers. Wide roads. Too many people living their own stories while mine was being written for me.

When we reached the Moretti estate, the staff lined the hallway. All perfectly polite, perfectly dressed. They greeted me with forced smiles and subtle nods.

As if I’d earned a place here.

I hadn’t.

I was a statement. A warning. A body turned into leverage.

Damian walked ahead, speaking briefly to the head of security. I followed in silence, memorizing the path from the foyer to the east wing. My wing, apparently.

“This is your room,” he said, stopping at a tall set of French doors. “You’ll find everything you need inside.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We’re not sharing?”

He looked at me slowly. “We will. When I decide we’re ready.”

I hated how my cheeks warmed.

He stepped closer, his voice lower now. “You don’t belong here, Aria. But you will.”

My breath caught.

“Why me?” I asked. “Why not just kill Luca and be done with it?”

His eyes met mine. No hesitation.

“Because killing him wouldn’t make your father suffer the way I want him to.”

“And marry me?”

“Every day.”

The cruelty was wrapped in silk. Smooth. Clean. Measured.

He turned and walked away without another word.

I stood in the hallway long after the door closed, alone in a dress that didn’t feel like mine, in a house that would never feel like home.

And for the first time in days, I let myself sit down. Slowly. On the edge of the bed.

I didn’t cry.

But I did breathe.

Deep. Controlled.

This wasn’t the life I wanted.

But it was the vow I made.

And Damian Moretti had no idea who he just bound himself to.

Not yet.