Page 18 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

I never imagined I’d be here, trapped in white lace, seconds from saying I do to a man I meant to kill.

Fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.

The chapel is a vision of false sanctity—white roses, glinting crystal, everything pristine and polished.

It mocks me since this union is anything but pure.

My father sits in the front row, razor-edged smile in place.

He thinks he’s won.

Thinks he’s broken his unruly daughter, shackled her to his empire with something far more binding than chains.

Our eyes meet.

The cold triumph in his gaze turns my blood to ice.

The part of me that wants to kill is restless.

It’s pacing, snarling, waiting for the moment I finally decide to let it loose.

Don’t you worry. One day, we’ll make him pay for this. For all of it.

The wedding dress weighs like unwanted armor. Heavy silk and lace, handcrafted by designers who worship the Mortelle name without ever knowing the blood behind it.

I chose white because it was expected.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

There’s nothing innocent about this bride. Nothing pure about the hands that will exchange rings today.

Across the altar, Aaron stands waiting.

His gaze locks onto mine, searing and unreadable—a storm of defiance, restraint, and something else I can’t name.

Resentment, maybe. Or rage. Both valid, given the circumstances.

Or the recognition of something feral and caged, the same instinct that claws at my ribs.

He wears the mask well. Calm. Controlled. The consummate businessman finalizing a deal.

But I see it—the tight line of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, the way his fingers curl and release at his sides.

He’s burning under that suit.

Just like me.

Aaron stands at the altar like a monolith—towering, immovable—as if the entire chapel had been constructed around him. I hate how my eyes keep finding him, no matter how hard I try to look away.

That black suit fits him too well. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Every inch of him sharp, deliberate, lethal. Even the fabric seems smug, catching the light like it knows it’s being admired.

I pretend disgust, but the truth burns somewhere lower.

Hotter.

His hair is an effortless mess, that perfect kind of careless.

Dark blonde that verges on brown beneath the chandelier light.

What would it feel like between my fingers? Is it as soft as it looks? I hate myself for wondering.

Even my married aunts keep finding excuses to gawk at him.

And still, he hasn’t looked at anyone but me.

Fuck him and his good looks.

Of course he had to be pretty.

I’ll keep my eyes down when I stand up there. Anywhere but his.

I’ll focus on his hands—strong, veined, tanned—clasped neatly in front of him as he surveys the room with barely concealed impatience.

Hands that will soon have every right to touch me.

Not that I’ll let them.

This isn’t a wedding.

It’s a sentence.

A prison for both of us. And yet, even as I curse the contract that binds us, I can’t stop cataloging every detail of the stranger who will become my husband.

I hate him for making me look.

And I hate myself more for wanting to.

Behind him stands Tristan, best man in name only.

His haunted expression has deepened since that night at the gala, the weight of whatever happened during that drive still dragging at his shoulders. He was supposed to be the one at the altar. That was Father’s plan, until something changed.

Something he won’t talk about.

Which means it’s really fucking bad.

But secrets never stay buried long.

And I’ll find out soon enough.

The music shifts, signaling the beginning of the ceremony.

The guests rise and suddenly breathing becomes harder.

A sea of New York’s elite mingling uncomfortably with my father’s associates.

Two worlds colliding in a farce of celebration.

I recognize faces from both sides of my life—powerful men my father has done business with, women who have gossiped about the Mortelle name behind delicate fans, and scattered among them, faces I’ve studied in darkened rooms before ending their owners’ miserable lives.

This is all I’ve ever known; death and deception dressed in designer labels.

Father’s cologne announces his presence before his footsteps do.

“Ready, tesoro ?” His voice is honey-coated steel.

“No.” My hands tremble against the bouquet.

He offers his elbow, waiting. “You have a lot of people to fool from here on out, including yourself.”

“Please stop talking.”

I hate him. I hate everyone witnessing me being sold like cattle.

Each step down the aisle is a funeral march.

Father’s grip remains painfully tight—a warning, a reminder of who holds the power.

But he doesn’t know about the knife strapped to my thigh beneath the layers of silk, or the escape routes I’ve memorized from every entrance of this building.

Some habits die hard, even on your wedding day.

I feel his gaze slip down my throat as I walk. It shouldn’t make my skin burn, but it does.

The music swells as we approach. Aaron’s eyes never leave me. Gray as winter storms, giving away a flicker of something while trying to strip bare every secret I’ve ever kept. His breath hitches as we get close, and something strikes me hard, my own breath catching.

He looks as if he’s on the edge of breaking.

We stop and Father turns toward me.

“You look beautiful, Caterina Mila. Your mother would be proud.”

Mother would have burned this church to the ground before seeing me married like this, and we both know it.

The minister’s voice drones on, a distant hum against the thick, suffocating air. I can’t tell if it’s acceptance or numbness settling in, but the words blur together—honor, cherish, obey.

Empty vows.

Promises neither of us intends to keep.

Aaron’s jaw is sharper than I remembered. Gold flickers behind gray eyes. His breathing shifts, turning shallow and uneven when our hands brush.

He’s not what I expected. Not the soft, privileged businessman I dismissed when I first started watching him. There’s steel beneath the fake polish. A quiet, unshakable resolve that mirrors my own.

And recognizing pieces of myself in a man I’ve marked as the enemy?

That’s more bothersome than anything.

“If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I half expect Zoe to rise from where she sits frozen in the front row beside Dominik, her face a mix bag of emotions.

We told her our story—the carefully constructed lie about Via and Caterina being the same person, about our secret relationship.

She’d accepted it because she had no choice, but the hurt in her eyes is still there. I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me.

Another sin to add to my ever growing collection.

I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping. Praying, if I believed in God.

Someone could speak up, stop this, save us both.

But the silence stretches. No interruptions. No salvation.

I tune it all out.

The music. The guests. The weight of the moment pressing down.

I will myself not to hear the dreaded words. Not to feel the final snap of the trap closing.

But it happens anyway.

The final blow.

The end of freedom.

The minister prompts us to exchange vows.

“I, Aaron Jackson, take you, Caterina Mortelle, to be my wife.”

The words sound rehearsed, detached. As if he’s reading a script.

Until the very end.

He leans in just enough. His voice drops low, meant only for me.

“For as long as we both survive this.”

Not a vow. A warning. A line drawn in blood between us. And still my breath hitches like it means something.

I look into his eyes and a sudden current passes between us: sharp, electric, volatile.

For a breath, I forget.

Forget the coercion.

Forget the game we’re caught in.

Just for that moment, it feels like a choice.

“The rings, please,” the minister says.

Tristan steps forward, placing the rings in Aaron’s palm, his jaw tight as he avoids my face. I look back at Aaron, watching as he slides the band onto my finger. Platinum and diamonds, cold and heavy against my skin. A beautiful shackle.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The minister pauses, smiling brightly.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Aaron’s hand clamps over mine, and the entire place holds its breath in collective anticipation. Or maybe that’s just me. And then without warning, we’re shoved together in a kiss that feels more like a collision.

There’s nothing soft about the kiss.

No grace. No pretense.

His mouth crashes into mine with a fierce unapologetic force. It’s not a kiss, but a claim. I meet him halfway, clawing at him with my lips. Like a starved fucking animal.

Somewhere beneath the violence, something fractures.

Heat surges between us, a rush that shouldn’t be there.

It coils around my spine, sinks beneath my skin.

The line between hate and desire blurs in an instant, replaced by something foreign.

A spark or a warning, I can’t tell which.

All I know is I can’t lose myself in it.

Aaron’s hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer. The world shrinks, leaving only this. The heat of his body against mine, the scent of his cologne, the unexpected softness of his lips despite the bruising force behind them.

For one breathless second, the chapel disappears. The guests, the vows, the weight of expectation…all of it blurs into nothing.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

When his mouth finally breaks from mine, the sensation lingers. Etched into my skin, my breath still tangled with his.

I wasn’t supposed to feel anything but hate.

We step apart. But the space between us isn’t empty anymore.

It pulses with fury and heat.

His eyes lock onto mine—calm, unreadable. But I see the storm behind his mask. He felt it too.

The minister clears his throat. Applause stirs through the crowd, but it sounds distant, muted by the thunderous pulse in my ears. I school my face into something cold and composed, but inside, I’m in shambles. More confused and dazed than I’ve ever been before.

The war was never between us alone.

Now it's under my skin—twisting, clawing, craving something it shouldn’t. And the most frightening part? I don't know if I want to win anymore.

I just want to survive him, and at this very moment, I’m not sure I will.