Page 19 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he reception hall is a monument to complete and utter bullshit. Crystal chandeliers dripping with pretension, white roses everywhere like some funeral for my old life, champagne towers flowing endlessly. A perfect facade, just like this whole fucking marriage.

Mortelle’s way of flashing his wealth, a middle finger to anyone who dares question his power.

Fuck him and his money.

My “wife” stands beside me, looking like something out of a bridal magazine in that white dress, her hand resting delicately in mine as we greet an endless parade of faces that blur together like a bad dream. Her smile doesn’t slip. It’s rehearsed, radiant, razor-sharp.

Wife .

Hours ago, Caterina was my stalker, my personal nightmare, my goddamn enemy. Now she’s Mrs. Jackson, and I’m supposed to look at her like I don’t fantasize about strangling her with my bare hands.

“You’re crushing my fingers,” she murmurs through that perfect smile as we pose for another photograph.

I ease my grip slightly but don’t let go. “Sorry, sweetheart. Just a little nervous around your father’s business associates.”

Translation: the collection of criminals, money launderers, and murderers circling us like vultures at a fresh kill.

Her eyes meet mine, and something flips in my stomach. The same something that’s been screwing with my head all day.

Yet another weird response to her.

The photographer waves us closer together, and I slide my arm around her waist. Caterina’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat before melting against mine like we’ve done this a thousand times.

That damn kiss won’t leave me alone.

It should have been cold. A meaningless exchange to pacify the crowd and cement the farce we’ve been forced into.

But it wasn’t.

It was fire and fury, a clash of wills where neither of us wanted to be the first to break. Her lips, soft but unforgiving, the way she met every ounce of my anger with her own.

Fuck.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Wasn’t supposed to feel like anything.

It’s just wedding day nerves.

Then why does it keep replaying in my head like a song I can’t turn off?

Another variable I didn’t account for. Another link of restraint gone.

“Perfect,” the photographer declares with enthusiasm. “You two look absolutely radiant. So in love.”

Caterina laughs, resting her hand on my chest as she looks up at me. “That’s because we are.”

She reaches up to straighten my tie in a gesture that looks casually intimate but sends an unwelcome jolt straight through my nervous system.

“What the hell was that?” I ask quietly, my voice pitched low enough that only she can hear.

“What was what?”

“At the altar. That kiss.” I search her face for any cracks. “That wasn’t just for show.”

“It was a kiss, Aaron. Don’t overthink it. We have an audience to convince.”

Before I can press further, Giovanni Mortelle materializes beside us like the grim reaper in an expensive suit.

“My beautiful daughter,” he says, kissing Caterina’s cheek with paternal affection that makes my skin crawl. “And my new son-in-law. What a joyous occasion for our families.”

He extends his hand to me. I take it, grinding my teeth.

There’s a warning in his grip—a silent reminder of exactly who’s pulling the strings here. This is the man who orchestrated this entire circus.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, matching his pressure with calculated calm. “I’m honored to be part of the family.”

I’m usually excellent at lying.

But that one tastes like dog shit mixed with broken glass.

Maybe because we both know he would’ve had me turned into fertilizer if I’d refused this arrangement. Still might, if the mood strikes him wrong.

My entire life, dangling from strings he pulls.

“I hope you’ll make her happy. My Caterina deserves nothing but the absolute best.”

Beside me, I feel Caterina tense up. “Father, please.”

“Nonsense, tesoro . It’s a father’s privilege on his daughter’s wedding day.” His gaze returns to me with laser focus. “I trust the honeymoon arrangements meet with your approval?”

The honeymoon: two weeks at a private villa in the Maldives. Another crafted piece of this elaborate lie, designed to maintain our cover story. Two weeks trapped with my counterpart.

Of course he did this on purpose. Keep us under surveillance, make sure neither of us cracks or runs. Because if this marriage falls apart publicly, if anyone discovers this is all smoke and mirrors, it’s his reputation that takes the hit.

“Everything sounds perfect. We’re both looking forward to it,” I reply.

My arm tightens around Caterina’s waist before I realize what I’m doing.

Possessive.

No. Not possessiveness.

Pure rage.

Buried deep but still burning like a coal in my chest.

“Excellent,” Mortelle says, just as someone else starts approaching from the crowd.

Across the room, Tristan hovers at the bar with a whiskey glass welded to his hand, jaw locked like he’s holding back a confession. He hasn’t smiled once since the ceremony ended. Not since the moment I said the words that sentenced me to this.

His eyes catch mine across the crowd, and the way he looks at me is loud and clear. He’s not sure I can pull this off without losing myself completely.

He’s not alone.

Before I can analyze that look further, Zoe comes charging toward us with Dominik close behind, looking like she’s ready to start World War Three right here in the reception hall.

Her expression is tight, her usual warmth replaced by the kind of icy surface I recognize because it’s mine.

The same look I wear when I’m one wrong word away from losing my shit.

“Aaron. Caterina.” Zoe’s nod is sharp, her voice cold as January in New York.

“So glad you could make it,” I say carefully. “We know the timeline was...compressed.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Her smile could power a small city with its concentrated sarcasm. “Though I have to say, the whole thing has been quite the surprise.”

Beside me, Caterina goes statue-still. “Zoe, I know you’re upset?—”

“Upset? Why would I be upset, Via? Or is it Cat now? Maybe Caterina? Hard to keep track of your various identities these days.”

Of course my sister would choose this moment—in front of my new crime boss father-in-law—to have a public breakdown.

Dominik places a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Maybe this isn’t the best place for this conversation.”

His eyes flick to mine with a look that says help me out here.

“This is a wedding, not a battlefield,” Mortelle’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, his tone deceptively light. “Rein in your sister, Aaron.”

He might as well have slapped me across the face.

Rein in your sister.

Not just offensive, but territorial.

I see the same flash of fury ripple through Dom’s expression.

“My sister has every right to her feelings,” I say flatly, meeting Mortelle’s stare head-on.

“Aaron—” Caterina warns.

But I’m done being handled like a puppet.

“I understand your concern for appearances, sir. But Zoe is my family. I won’t silence her to make your party more comfortable.”

What I don’t say: Try to give me orders again, and we’ll see how fast this whole charade burns to the ground.

Silence spreads through our little circle like spilled wine, thick and staining. Everyone within earshot stops breathing, waiting to see if I just signed my own death warrant.

Mortelle studies me with the patience of a predator deciding whether to strike or play with his prey a little longer. Then something shifts in his expression. Not approval, exactly. Something colder. Like he’s impressed I still have fangs.

“Loyalty to family is indeed a virtue,” he says finally.

Rich words, coming from the man who turned his own daughter into a weapon.

He turns to Zoe with practiced charm. “Take all the time you need with your brother and his bride. Family comes first.”

Then he walks back into the crowd like the master manipulator he is.

Zoe rounds on me the second he’s out of earshot. “What the actual fuck was that, Aaron?”

“That,” Caterina sighs, “was my father being himself.”

“Look, it’s complicated, but you’re better off not knowing the details,” I say, hating how that sounds even as the words leave my mouth.

“For how long?” Dom asks, and there’s something in his voice that catches me off guard. “Because we’re here for both of you, whether you want us to be or not.”

That surprises me. Especially after last time, when he nearly rearranged my face for keeping secrets from Zoe.

I glance at Caterina. She’s already looking at me, and the question hangs between us like a loaded gun: How much of this do we let them see? How much danger are we willing to drag them into?

My answer is already sealed behind clenched teeth: None. Not Zoe. Not Dom. I won’t let them pay for my mistakes.

Caterina answers for both of us with practiced diplomacy. “Maybe we can talk more after things settle down. Thank you both for being here today.”

It’s a clean dismissal, polished and disarming. Like she reached into my brain, plucked out exactly what I was thinking, and delivered it with a bow.

Zoe starts to turn away, but Caterina stops her with gentle fingers on her arm.

“I never meant to hurt you. The friendship we had was real. Even if the name wasn’t, the rest of it was completely genuine.”

Zoe’s eyes narrow. “And falling for my brother? Was that part of some master plan too?”

There’s a pause. Just long enough to sting.

“No. That was unexpected.”

It’s the way she says it that gets to me. No armor, no calculated smirk. Raw honesty with the edge of vulnerability.

For one breath, I actually believe her.

Almost.

It would be easier to hate her.

Clean. Simple. Orderly.

But there’s nothing clean about this.

And Caterina? She’s a fucking hurricane.

Zoe shakes her head, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.