Page 5 of Unworthy Ties

Gabriella

T oday was all wrong.

Not that I was expecting a good day; it was my wedding day after all. In less than an hour, I would officially be married to the wrong Marchioni brother.

The wedding was being held at my family’s estate; our sprawling gardens had a sea of cream and pastel roses, their sweet scent wafting through the arched windows of the manor.

Gilded chairs were arranged meticulously amidst the verdant expanse, gleaming under the sunlight, while a string quartet played soft, mournful melodies that echoed around the manicured hedges.

My bridal party was sure to be in one of our spare rooms on the first floor, gathering together to prepare for walking down the aisle.

I, however, was pacing around my room, a nervous wreck. In moments like these I would normally talk to Giuseppe, but my stuffed cat had gotten packed in the mass amount of boxes I took to Rocco’s house, and I hadn’t been able to find him before I left.

I scribbled a drawing of Giuseppe on printer paper and taped it against my vanity, hoping it would do the trick.

“I can’t believe I have to get married to him,” I said, talking to the poorly drawn picture of Giuseppe. “Who does he think he is? Just randomly kissing me like that!”

Heat flared on my cheeks. Rocco was actually a really good kisser. Not that I had much experience in that area, but there was a level of certainty in his kiss that threw me off balance.

“It’s fine,” I continued. “I just have to say ‘I do.’ And then it’s over.”

Until you have to spend the rest of your life with him. Giuseppe’s poorly drawn picture seemed to whisper back in my head.

“He’ll probably just ignore me anyway,” I responded.

Not tonight he won’t. He’ll probably rip off your dress— I tore the picture off the wall before the thought could finish itself.

“You’re meaner than Giuseppe,” I muttered, crumpling up the piece of paper into a ball.

“Talking to your cat again?” Fiorella didn’t ask as she opened the door to my bedroom and waltzed in.

“No.” It was technically the truth. Giuseppe was buried in a box somewhere in Rocco’s house.

She raised her eyebrow at me but didn’t argue.

For once, she was wearing a color that wasn’t black.

She was my maid of honor and was wearing the color I had picked out for the bridesmaids—a soft, dusky pink that matched the roses outside.

It was odd, to say the least. I almost wanted to tell her to take the dress off and go put on one of her weird gothic ones.

Fiorella raised my pillow in triumph, expecting Giuseppe to be hidden underneath. She frowned when she found nothing, her hands meeting the crisp, cool sheets of my bed.

I scoffed at her, crossing my arms. “I told you I don’t talk to my stuffed animal.”

“Where is that infernal ragdoll? Did you lose him?”

“The only infernal thing in this house is your wardrobe,” I scowled at my sister, who simply smirked in response and brushed off my comment like a piece of lint on her dress.

“I don’t have time to argue about your cat. Dad is freaking out that you’re not downstairs.”

“Of course he is.”

“Well, you do walk down the aisle in,” Fiorella looked at an imaginary clock on her wrist. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?!” My heart lurched in my chest, and I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach.

“So it’s time to go,” Fiorella said.

She grabbed me by the arm and all but dragged me down the hallway.

As we descended the grand marble staircase, I could hear the orchestral strains echoing through the mansion, its familiar notes weaving around me like a haunting lullaby.

My heels clicked against the stone, my heart keeping pace with my steps.

My dad gave me a stern face as I approached him and the wedding party.

The look told me he would be yelling right now if we didn’t have an audience.

I shot him a sheepish smile before taking his arm, his tense grip silently displaying his frustration.

He started leading me down the grand hallway that connected to the outdoor pavilion where the ceremony was being held.

One by one, the wedding party walked down the aisle in pairs, their movements precise and graceful.

Fiorella gave me a sad smile, a rare moment of empathy from my younger sister.

Then, she linked arms with Felix, who was Rocco’s best man, and they made their way down the aisle, leaving only me and my father.

As I watched them turn through the hedges, I didn’t know what to feel anymore. The angst of not getting to marry Felix had passed, and had been taken over by an odd, hollow feeling.

As the music shifted to Canon in D, my father squared his shoulders, a tight smile stretched on his face. “Ready, Gabriella?”

I nodded, my voice trapped behind a lump in my throat.

Time was moving simultaneously both too fast and in slow motion as my father and I started walking down the aisle.

The scent of roses wafted through the warm air, and all around me guests stood and turned to watch as we made our passage.

Their faces were a blur, a sea of pastel dresses and light suits.

At the end of the aisle, as clear as day, stood Rocco. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair combed back and his eyes fixed on me. There was something about his gaze that held my attention. It was a look filled with such fierce intensity that my breath hitched in my chest.

His lips were set in a firm line, making it impossible to decipher his emotions. I could only make out the solemnity mirrored in his eyes as they met mine. I swallowed hard and continued my march toward him.

The orchestra fell silent as we reached the end of the aisle, its strings echoing a last mournful note that hung heavy in the air. My father’s grip on my arm loosened, and he gave me away to Rocco.

Gave me away. Like I was some sort of chip to be dealt in his business dealings. The mirthless smile my father offered, along with a nod to Rocco, felt like the closing of a deal.

The pastor’s words barely registered as he recited the customary vows. And before I knew it, he reached the final two questions. Those two little questions that would bind us together for the rest of our lives.

“Do you, Rocco Marchioni, take Gabriella Coscia to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” Rocco’s response was curt, his voice steady. His tone was that of agreeing where to eat for lunch rather than accepting me as his wife.

“And do you, Gabriella Coscia, take Rocco Marchioni to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The words seemed to ring in my ears, echoing as if shouted into a cavernous void. I felt my heart pound against my ribcage like a caged bird desperate for freedom.

I was looking at Rocco, but I still saw Felix behind him in my peripherals, his face a painful reminder of the ten years I had spent pining over him.

My lips were dry, my throat constricted, but I managed to utter my part in the ceremony. “I do,” I responded.

Tears prickled in my eyes, but it wasn’t from the happiness of being a newlywed. Instead, they were the bitter tears of loss, wondering what my life would have been like if I wasn’t in this situation.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Rocco muttered, unbuttoning his cuff links and placing them on the side table.

The wedding was finally done. It was almost physically painful receiving congratulations from family members and friends, their smiles stretching too wide, their eyes not quite reaching the same merriment. They knew the reason for this marriage.

We had arrived back at our hotel room that was anything but romantic, with its cold marble floors and impersonal artwork adorning the walls. The weight of the diamond ring on my finger felt like a shackle more than a symbol of love.

My eyes flitted around the room until they landed on the bed. Suddenly, being swarmed by well-wishers and loud music at my wedding sounded much better than being in this hotel room. I knew I was going to have to share that bed with Rocco tonight, and that thought alone sent shivers up my spine.

Would he fuck me the same way he had kissed me, full of intensity and a hint of roughness that left me breathless? I mentally scolded myself for thinking such things about him.

Rocco poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing loudly in the otherwise silent room. I watched as he downed it in one go and then refilled his glass, the liquor’s harsh scent permeating the air, mixing with my unease.

I scoffed. Apparently, the idea of sleeping with me was so repulsive he had to be drunk.

“What?” he asked, catching my soft disdain with his sharp ears.

I should have told him ‘nothing,’ but instead I told him exactly what I was thinking. “Is the idea of sleeping with me so terrible you have to be drunk for it?”

“Oh?”

He set his drink on the counter and stalked towards me like a predator closing in on its prey, his gaze never once leaving mine. I instinctively backed away until I hit the wall, my heart pounding like a wild drum in my chest. His hands planted on either side of me, trapping me.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice low and velvet-smooth.

A few strands of his dark hair had fallen onto his forehead, his suit jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins running down his strong arms. The sight was alarmingly attractive, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing.

I could feel the warmth emanating from him, causing my cheeks to flush. “Isn’t it?” I stuttered, refusing to break eye contact with him.

“It’s quite the contrary.”

Rocco pressed his pelvis into mine and I gasped as his hardness was evident, his desire as palpable as the tension that filled the room.

He lowered his head a little, his hot breath fanning my face, making me dizzy with anticipation and fear.

His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that startled me, the golden flecks in them glowing like embers in the dim light.

“The thought of touching you…” he trailed off, running a hand down my side and letting it rest on my hip, his grip firm yet gentle. “But you’re not ready for that, right?”

It was odd seeing this side of Rocco; one that considered my feelings and cared about my comfort. The only version of him I knew was aloof and detached, a man who approached the world with brutal honesty and an unyielding veneer of cold indifference.

Of course I wasn’t ready for sex. I was still trying to get over a ten-year crush on his brother, and now I was forced to share a bed with him. I’d probably never be ready for it. I should just get it over with now; rip it off like a band-aid that had been stuck for too long.

But I couldn’t.

“No,” I conceded, looking at the floor.

He exhaled, a low sound that was almost a growl. His grip on my hip loosened before his hand fell away entirely. I felt the loss of contact instantly, a chill seeping into the space where his warmth had been.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” he said, his voice taking on the usual cold indifference. He turned and walked toward the adjacent bathroom, leaving me standing alone, my back still pressed against the cool wall. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing and slow my racing heart.

I couldn’t believe I was locked into a lifetime with this man.