*Isabella*
The room smelled of blood. No matter how many rose petals they scattered on the floor, how many lavender-scented candles they lit, it wouldn't cover it. The metallic tang clung to the air, heavy and oppressive, like a ghost that refused to leave.
My breath was shallow, my ribs tight as if bound by invisible iron. I couldn't stop thinking about the servant boy—the way his body crumpled to the floor, how his eyes stared at nothing. Lifeless. Empty. Three shots, three bodies.
And all I could do was watch.
Matteo had made sure of that.
I stood in front of the gilded mirror, staring at the woman reflected back at me. The woman wore a white lace gown that clung to her figure, elegant and exquisite, like something straight out of a fairy tale. But it wasn't me. It was someone else. Someone hollow. Someone *owned.*
I gripped the fabric at my sides, fingers curling into the delicate lace. If I pulled hard enough, maybe I could tear it apart. Destroy it. Destroy all of it. The rage built up inside me, hot and suffocating, but I couldn't let it show. Not here. Not now.
*Don't cry.*
If I cried, he'd see. If I broke, he'd win.
The knock came. Three short, sharp raps. My stomach turned to ice.
I didn't answer. There was no point. He wasn't asking permission to enter.
The door swung open, and Matteo walked in like he owned not just the room but the air inside it. His eyes—sharp, dark, and endlessly calculating—landed on me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The weight of his gaze was enough.
"You're beautiful," he said, his voice smooth as silk, but there was no warmth in it. It wasn't a compliment. It was a statement. A fact. Just another one of his possessions, like the tailored suit he wore or the watch on his wrist.
My jaw clenched. I didn't thank him.
He stepped closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate, the polished leather of his shoes barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. Every step echoed in my chest like the ticking of a clock counting down to something I couldn't stop.
His fingers brushed the edge of my veil, lifting it slightly, letting it fall back into place. I didn't flinch. Not this time. I stayed still, kept my breathing steady, my heart a steady thrum of resistance in my chest.
"Don't make that face," he murmured, tilting his head as if studying me. "You'll ruin the pictures."
I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. *Don't give him the satisfaction.*
He took my chin in his hand, tilting my head up so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. His touch wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. It was control—firm, absolute. I hated that he could do that. Hated that I hadn't found a way to stop him yet.
"You know why we're doing this," he said quietly, his gaze burning into mine. "You can hate me if it makes you feel better, bella, but it won't change a thing."
My nails dug into the lace at my sides. *Don't speak. Don't fight. Not now.*
I swallowed hard, staring at him like he was the abyss itself. "If I hated you any more, Matteo, the ground beneath your feet would catch fire."
For a moment, something flashed in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Amusement. It was gone before I could name it. He let out a short, low laugh.
"There she is," he said, letting go of my chin. "There's the fire I was hoping for."
I didn't reply. I'd already said too much.
"Let's go, cara mia," he said as he took my arm. "It's time to put on a show."
* * *
The chapel was colder than I expected. The air bit at my skin, but I didn't shiver. I kept my head high, eyes straight ahead as Matteo guided me down the aisle. Every step felt heavier than the last. The lace train of my gown dragged behind me like chains, and with every second, the weight grew.
The guests watched in silence, their eyes sharp and expectant. Some of them were from his family—men in crisp suits, women with sharp smiles and sharper eyes. The rest were from mine. My father sat in the front row, his face pale, eyes hollow. My mother held my brother close to her side, her fingers clutching his arm like she was afraid he'd be snatched away.
He might be. If I made one wrong move, he would be.
I stared straight ahead. If I looked at them too long, I'd break.
*Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.*
We reached the altar. The priest stood there, flipping through the pages of his book, his face blank and unreadable. He'd done this before. He'd married off women like me before.
"Dearly beloved," the priest began, his voice a low drone, "we are gathered here today…"
I barely heard him. His words blended into the hum of my thoughts, the thud-thud-thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
*This is it.*
*No one's coming to save you.*
*No one can.*
The priest's voice broke through. "Do you, Isabella Laurent, take Matteo Antonio to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Silence.
The entire chapel held its breath. My chest tightened, heart pounding so loud I thought everyone could hear it. For a moment, I didn't know if I could speak. The words stuck in my throat like thorns.
"Say it," Matteo said softly, just loud enough for me to hear. "Or I'll give you another reason to."
My eyes darted to my family, to Adrien's wide, frightened eyes. He was too young to understand what was happening. Too young to see the noose tightening around my neck.
*Say it.*
"I do," I whispered.
The priest leaned forward. "Pardon?"
"I do," I said louder, my voice sharp and clear. It echoed off the chapel walls like a gunshot. I stood straighter, eyes fixed on the priest, not Matteo. *Don't look at him. Don't give him that power.*
The priest nodded, satisfied. His gaze shifted to Matteo. "And do you, Matteo Antonio, take Isabella Laurent to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Matteo didn't hesitate. "I do."
Two words. That was all it took. Two words, and the shackles around my wrists locked into place.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may—"
Matteo's hand shot out, gripping my waist. He yanked me toward him, and before I could react, his lips crashed against mine. The world around me fell away.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim. His fingers dug into my back, hard enough to leave marks. His lips weren't soft or gentle. They were sharp, demanding, suffocating. I didn't close my eyes. I didn't move. I stood perfectly still, letting him think he'd won.
The room erupted in applause. Cheers, whistles, laughter. Like this was a celebration. Like this was something joyful.
He pulled away, his breath warm against my skin. His eyes locked on mine, daring me to fight, daring me to resist.
"Smile, cara mia,," he said, voice soft but sharp. "You're a bride, after all."
I forced my lips to curl into the smallest smile, letting him think he'd won.
But as I looked at him, at the man who had taken everything from me, I whispered words only he could hear.
"Enjoy your victory, Matteo," I murmured, my eyes hard as steel. "Because it won't last."
His grin faltered just a fraction. Barely a flicker. But I saw it. I *saw* it.
And that was enough.
'You should have broken me when you had the chance.'
He didn't.
And that was his first mistake.