AMELIA
The church was stifling, as if the air itself had conspired to choke her. The vaulted ceilings loomed above her, grand and unyielding, while the rows of flickering candles on golden candelabras cast trembling shadows across the walls. Everything was immaculate. Perfect. Designed for a fairy tale, not for this nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
The pristine white roses lining the pews should have been beautiful, but to Amelia, they felt suffocating, their sweet scent cloying and overpowering. The guests were seated in silence, their heads turning in unison to watch her. Dozens of pairs of eyes bore into her as if they could sense the anger and fear roiling in her chest. They weren't here for her, not really. They weren't here to celebrate love or union or even tradition. They were here to watch her become a possession. To see her handed over to Damien Black, the most dangerous man in the room.
Amelia's hands trembled under the weight of the bouquet she gripped tightly, her fingers brushing against the soft petals of the lilies. The flowers were delicate, innocent even, but they felt like an ironic mockery of the reality around her. Her legs moved forward mechanically, step by step, her body obeying even as her mind screamed to stop.
Beside her, her father's arm looped firmly through hers, his grip tight and unyielding. The warmth of his hand pressing against hers should have comforted her, but it didn't. It only suffocated her further, a reminder of the man who had delivered her into this.
"I don't want to do this," she whispered under her breath, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions.
Charles Moranos barely glanced at her, but his grip tightened, his knuckles brushing against hers. "You have to," he replied, his lips barely moving, his tone cold and final. "For the family."
The words sent a fresh wave of anger burning through her chest, but she knew there was no use in arguing. Not here. Not now. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. She wouldn't cry. Not here, not in front of them. Not in front of him.
Ahead of her, at the end of the aisle, Damien Black stood waiting. Watching. He was a still figure in the sea of movement around him, his presence commanding, almost oppressive. His eyes were locked on her, unblinking, dark and unreadable. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't need to. The intensity of his gaze said everything: You're mine now.
Amelia's stomach churned. She couldn't tell if it was anger or fear—or some horrifying combination of both.
He was handsome, she supposed, but it wasn't the kind of beauty that brought comfort or warmth. His features were sharp, precise, like they'd been carved from stone. A strong, sculpted jawline. Piercing, calculating eyes. Even the faint smirk that tugged at his lips wasn't charming; it was a threat, a warning of the destruction he could bring.
Her steps faltered, the sheer weight of her gown dragging her down as panic began to claw its way up her throat. For a fleeting second, she thought of running. She thought of turning on her heel, of ripping the veil from her head and racing out of the church before anyone could stop her.
But her father's grip on her arm tugged sharply, pulling her forward and snapping her back into the cold, suffocating reality. She stumbled slightly but caught herself, her breath shallow and ragged. She couldn't run. Not now. Not with everyone watching.
Not with Damien waiting.
When they reached the altar, Amelia froze. Damien's hand was already extended toward her, steady and sure, his dark eyes locking with hers as if daring her to resist.
Her throat tightened as she stared at his outstretched hand. Every fiber of her being screamed at her not to touch him, not to step into the trap he had so carefully laid for her.
"Amelia," her father hissed softly, his voice low but firm. It was a warning. A threat.
Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she forced herself to raise her hand and place it in Damien's. His grip closed over hers instantly—firm, unyielding, and far too warm. The contact sent a shiver through her, one she couldn't quite suppress, and she wondered if he could feel the way her hand shook.
"Don't worry," Damien murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. His breath brushed against her ear, sending another unwelcome shiver down her spine. "I don't bite. Not unless you want me to."
Her jaw clenched, her nails biting into the delicate bouquet still clutched in her free hand. She refused to look at him, refused to rise to his bait.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. The priest's words were distant and muffled, as though they were coming from underwater. She couldn't focus on anything except the crushing weight pressing down on her. She barely noticed when Damien slipped the golden band onto her trembling finger or when the priest declared them husband and wife.
It wasn't until Damien leaned in to press a cold, calculated kiss to her cheek that the haze cleared just enough for her to register what was happening. The sound of applause erupted around them, loud and jarring, as the guests rose to their feet.
The noise felt like nails scraping against her skin. She wanted to scream, to shout at them to stop, but the sound stuck in her throat.
Instead, she stood frozen, her hand still trapped in Damien's unrelenting grip, her heart pounding as the weight of her new reality crashed down around her.
She was Amelia Black now. His wife. His possession. And there was no escape.