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The music grows louder, and my stomach knots itself into a pretzel of anxiety. My heart hammers like it’s trying to break free. The veil obscures my vision slightly, making it easier to digest the nightmare that’s about to unfold.

“Ready?” the taller guard asks, though it’s not really a question.

The doors swing open, and the music crashes over me like a wave, drowning out the roaring in my ears. The church is full of people I don’t know, faces turning to watch me with curious eyes. I’ve never felt lonelier. Never thought I’d get married without a single loved one present. My dreams, my very humble dreams, come crashing down around me.

I look straight ahead while my knees tremble below me. And there, standing at the altar, is none other than Marco Bianchi.

Even from this distance, he’s overwhelming. Tall and imposing in a tailored black suit that clings to broad shoulders. Dark hair swept back from his forehead, revealing a face that could have been carved from stone. A small scar cuts through his right eyebrow, the only flaw in his perfect symmetry, like a warning sign that this beautiful thing is broken in ways that will hurt you.

The guards release me, stepping back. I’m alone now, expected to walk toward my jailer without an escort. My feet feel lead-weighted as I take the first step, then another. The dress now feels too tight, restricting my movement, forcing me to take small, measured steps. Each one feels like a surrender.

Marco’s eyes—deep, piercing green, even from halfway down the aisle—never leave me. His expression stays cold: no smile, no warmth. Then he lets his gaze drop, slide over my body, and I’m hit by every memory from that night in my apartment. Heat rushes to my neck, and my cheeks flush. I wonder if he’s picturing me naked right now.

I’m halfway to him when I realize I’m not breathing. I force my lungs to expand, but the corseted bodice fights back, allowing only shallow gasps that make me lightheaded. The flowers in my hand are slippery with sweat.

When I finally reach the altar, standing before him, Marco towers over me. He’s at least a foot taller, forcing me to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His presence is suffocating, more primal than any other man I’ve met. Power emanates from him like heat from a fire.

With deliberate slowness, his hands rise to my veil. His fingers, I notice, bear calluses. I know it’s not from hard work on the farm, given the wealth on display, the diamond and gold-studded watch he wears.

He lifts the veil, and as my face is revealed to him, something flashes in his eyes—suspicion, then something darker that makes my insides knot.

His gaze doesn’t stop at my face. It moves down my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the cinch of my waist, the swell of my hips beneath the satin dress. It’s not the look of a man seeing his bride—it’s the look of a man who knows he owns something, who’s imagining every way he’ll use his possession, who remembers what it’s like to have that power. There’ssomething in that look, a silent message:I see you. I know who you really are.

“Chiara,” he says, but the way his tongue curls around my sister’s name feels like an accusation. “You look…unlike yourself.”

And in that moment,I know he knows.

He knowsI’m not Chiara.When he looked me up and down like that, he wasn’t imagining.

He wasremembering.

A thrum of unwanted warmth pulses low, traitorous and alive, while panic blooms in my chest, dizzying and hot. I should run, scream, apologize, but I stand there rooted in the now. I hate myself for it, but there’s something in his dominance that calls to a traitorous part of me—the part that finds danger intoxicating.

The priest begins speaking, his words washing over me in a meaningless blur. I can’t focus on anything but Marco’s proximity, the subtle threat in his stillness, the way his jaw clenches as though restraining himself from something violent.

When it’s time for the rings, Marco takes my hand. His touch is electric, his fingers brushing against my palm in a way that feels deliberately intimate. A shiver races up my arm, and by the tightening at the corner of his mouth, I know he felt it too. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist where my pulse beats wildly, and it feels like he’s taking my vital signs, measuring my fear.

“I, Marco Antonio Bianchi,” he says, voice deep and steady, filling the church without effort, “take you, Chiara Rossi, to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

The emphasis he places on my sister’s name is subtle—too subtle for anyone else to notice—but it lands between us like a slap.

His vows continue, promises to cherish and protect. When it’s my turn, my voice fails me. The priest looks at me expectantly, and Marco’s hand tightens around mine in warning.

“I, Chiara Rossi,” I begin, the lie sour on my tongue, “take you, Marco Antonio Bianchi, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

Each word feels like betrayal, to both Marco and myself. I struggle through the vows, my voice trembling. When I reach the final “I do,” Marco’s eyes narrow, and I know my reluctance has been noted, catalogued, added to whatever reckoning awaits me later.

“I do,” I whisper, the words barely audible even to myself.

Marco slides the wedding band onto my finger with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles as he settles the ring into place.

“By the power vested in me,” the priest intones, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He turns to Marco. “You may kiss your bride.”

The moment freezes in time. Marco’s hands rise to frame my face, not gently but with firm possession. His palms are warm against my cheeks, fingers threading into my hair at the nape of my neck. He pulls me toward him, not asking but taking.

When his lips meet mine, it’s not the gentle kiss of a church ceremony. It’s a claim laid bare, a dominance asserted. His mouth is firm and demanding, and when I gasp in surprise, his tongue sweeps in, exploring me with a depth that makes my knees weaken. One hand slides to the small of my back, pressing me close, letting me feel the hard planes of his body against the softness of mine.

It’s a kiss meant to humiliate, to show everyone watching that I am his to do with as he pleases. And yet, God help me, heat blooms low in my belly, and I find myself arching into him,responding to his dominance with a surrender that shames me even as it thrills through my veins.