The church is almost full now, but I don’t recognize a single person walking through those doors. Everyone looks like they’ve stepped straight out of a magazine with their tailored suits and sparkling earrings. Everyone has on a perfectly rehearsed smile, and I feel completely out of place.
I move to the edge of the church, wanting nothing more than to disappear. The guests glance around like they’re trying to place each other, and they smile and wave to people they know, but no one looks my way. I keep checking my phone even though I know there’s nothing new. No message. No call. I’ve texted her so many times already, but of course she hasn’t bothered to keep check.
I tell myself she’s probably just running late. Maybe traffic. Maybe her phone died. But the longer I stand here, the heavier it feels in my chest. That familiar twist in my stomach, the one that shows up when something’s not right, is starting to get worse. She said she’d be here. So where the hell is she?
It’s been three days since Chiara stormed into our apartment and threw a wad of cash on the coffee table like it was nothing, and said, “Problem solved.” I counted the money. It was five thousand dollars, a small fortune, and of course, I asked where it came from.
She laughed in reply, and something about it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Where did you get that?” I’d asked again, more seriously now.
She just waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s handled.”
But I did worry. For three straight days. Every time I brought it up again, she’d dodge the question. “You’re being dramatic,” she said once. Another time it was, “Just trust me, okay?”
Now I’m standing here, in some fancy-ass church filled with strangers, holding an invitation she insisted I accept—“Come with me. It’ll be fun. Just for the night.”
Except she’s not here. And I don’t know a single soul around me. I check my phone again—still nothing from her.
I mutter under my breath, “This better not be some kind of setup.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not a joke. Something’s off. Something’s been off since the second she tossed that money down.
I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing here. I feel so lost and wonder if I should just leave, but then I’ll be the one leaving Chiara hanging. I’m trying to model the fact that when you make a promise, you show up. I’m hoping she sees the example I’m trying to set—and maybe follows it for once.
The ceiling stretches so high, but it feels like it’s pressing down on me as my heart begins to hammer down in my chest. It is a beautiful church, though. The colored light filtering in through the stained glass windows paints the walls with gorgeous images. This wedding definitely isn’t organized cheaply. The combined net worth in this room could crush a small country’s GDP. I’m sure of it.
I tug at the dress Chiara made me wear. It’s off-white, tight in places I don’t like, and I told her it didn’t feel right for a wedding. She just smiled and said, “It’s perfect for today. Trust me. It fits the theme.”
What theme? No one else here seems to be in on it.
I look around again. The guests are gathering in little groups, murmuring, nodding, talking. But the men in the corners stand out—tall, broad, serious-looking. Their suits are too stiff, and their eyes move around with mechanical precision. And then, when I look closer, I notice the holsters on their hips.
Security? But why would a wedding need this much security? A chill skitters down my spine.
My phone offers no answers—the screen is still blank despite the dozen messages I’ve sent to my sister in the last hour alone.
Where are you?
Who are these people?
Should I leave?
Chiara, I’m getting scared.
Nothing.
I step backward, my heel catching on the carpet. I stumble, righting myself against a marble column, and find myself face-to-face with a gilt-framed mirror. For a split second, I think I see Chiara staring back at me—same blonde waves, same hazel eyes, same small button nose.
But it’s just me, of course.
What would Chiara do? She would run. In a split second, I convince myself to get the hell out of here. Enough of wanting to set an example by showing up for my sister. I’ve been doing it for years, but it hasn’t made a difference to her, has it?
Chiara will always do what she wants, and I’m done living my life on her whims and fancies. I turn on my heels and am about to stride off when my phone vibrates. I nearly drop it in my haste to answer.
“Chiara? Where the hell are you?” I hiss, ducking behind a floral arrangement nearly as tall as I am.
“Aria.” Her voice sounds strange, too tight and too high. “I’m so sorry.”
Ice forms in my veins. “Sorry for what? Where are you?”
“I can’t be there. I just can’t.” A ragged breath. “They would’ve killed me, Aria. Maybe they still will.”
The room tilts slightly. “What are you talking about? You said it was handled. What’s happening? Who wants to kill you?”
“I entered a contract.” Her words tumble out, rushed and desperate. “He offered so much money, enough to clear all my debts, enough for us to start over, and I was in so much trouble with the debtors and knew this was my only chance. I thought I could take the money and do what he wanted, but what he asks of me, Aria, you don’t under—
She’s rambling, and I cut her off, unable to make heads or tails of what she’s saying.
“Slow down,” I whisper, pressing closer to the flowers. “What contract? Chiara, did you take more money? And who’s ‘he’?”
“I don’t know his name,” she says. “He’s—God, Aria, he’s dangerous. I know he is. But he offered a way out, and I took it because we needed the money so badly after—after everything.”
We? There is no we. I’d have a lot more money if she didn’t rely on what I earn, too—but now’s not the time to bring that up. My mind flashes back to our childhood: foster homes, locked cabinets, nights spent curled up together, whispering promises that one day, somehow, we’d be safe.
“What did the contract say?”
A pause. I can hear traffic in the background. She’s outside, maybe in a cab.
“The contract… It’s a marriage agreement.” Her voice cracks. “He wants a wife. But not just anyone—he wants you, Aria.”
My lungs seize. “Me? I don’t even know who he is. How could he possibly—”
“He thinks he knows you. But he doesn’t.” Her laugh is brittle, almost broken. “Remember that night you told me about? When a man came out of nowhere and saved you from those thugs at our place? When they all thought you were me—and he did, too?”
The memory crashes in, uninvited and raw. Me—dressed in Chiara’s clothes, trapped, helpless—until he burst through the door and tore through them like they were nothing, like they didn’t even exist. There was something in him—something dangerous, undeniable.
Sometimes, when I sleep in my bed, I still see him there, doing things too filthy to put into words.
And like always, my toes curl. Even now, even in this godforsaken church.
“What about that man?” I ask. A sudden flash—strong hands on my waist, lips grazing my neck. Heat spreads through me.
“You slept with him, didn’t you? And never gave him your real name,” she says, voice flat.
The world falls silent except for the rush in my ears.
“That was him? The man who made you the offer?”
“He saved you that night. Those men weren’t just debt collectors, Aria. They meant to hurt you—hurt me. He… took care of them.”
“Took care of them.” The words hang between us—sharp, heavy, like a blade.
“He came for you that night. Then he found me—the real me—and offered this arrangement. He wants to marry the woman he met, but he’s trapped by his own mistake—thinking you’re me.”
My hand trembles so badly that I nearly drop the phone. “This is insane. You can’t possibly expect me to—”
“I ran,” she interrupts, voice shaking. “I thought I could find the money to pay D’Angelo off and cut the deal. But four days—it wasn’t nearly enough time. I got scared. Scared of what would happen if they found out I tricked them. So I took their money and ran. Now, if they catch me, Aria… they’ll find me, and they’ll kill me. Because I made a contract with him—and they have ways to make sure I keep my end of the bargain.”
“Then we go to the police,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s not that simple. It never is for us.
“The police?” Chiara laughs like she’s shocked I could be that dumb. “A man as powerful as that probably owns the police. He probably owns this whole city. There’s nowhere I can hide that he won’t find me.”
A man in a suit glances in my direction, his gaze lingering a beat too long. I turn away, pressing deeper into the floral arrangement.
“Get here right now,” I demand, my voice low and urgent. “This is crazy, Chiara. You can’t seriously think I would—”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Aria. I thought… I thought I could fix everything. I thought this was our chance.”
“By selling me to a stranger?” My voice rises despite myself, and I clamp my lips shut as heads turn in my direction. “To a killer,” I whisper now.
“He doesn’t want just anyone,” Chiara insists. “He wants you—the woman he saved that night. I’m just—I’m the name on the paperwork.”
“This is insane,” I repeat, my voice trembling but desperate to hold onto reason. But then it hits me—the sick, brutal truth sinking in like a blade twisting in my chest. “You were never my plus-one, were you? You didn’t bring me here to stand beside you. You brought me here to replace you.”
She says nothing—and that says everything.
“You’re my sister,” I say, and there’s a pleading note in my voice I hate. “How could you do this? How much did you sell me for?”
“Because you’re smarter—and the only one who can get out of this mess. You don’t break; you bend and come back stronger. You always do.”
“Chiara—”
“I have to go. They’re watching the roads. I love you, Aria. I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead, and I realize she never even told me the cost of my life.
I stand frozen, staring at my phone as if it might offer a way out of this nightmare. But there’s no escape—not really. If I walk away now, they’ll come after Chiara. And probably me, too.
We’ve been running our whole lives, and we’re so damn tired.
I could let her face the consequences of her actions, just this once. Let her clean up her own mess instead of jumping in to save her like I always have—since we were kids with scraped knees and empty bellies. But even as the thought takes shape, I know I won’t. She’s my twin, my mirror, my other half. Her mistakes aren’t just hers—they’re a part of me too, like some cruel inheritance we both carry.
I straighten my shoulders and step out from behind the flowers. The choice isn’t really a choice at all. It’s what I’ve always done: step in, fix things, survive.
A gilded sign catches my eye—an ornate wedding placard I’d somehow missed on my way in. My heart stutters as I read the names elegantly scrolled across it:
Marco Bianchi and Chiara Rossi.
Marco Bianchi. That’s his name. The same man whose green eyes watched me with hunger as he moved above me, the hands that held me with surprising gentleness afterward.
The man who spilled blood to keep me breathing.
And now… he’s expecting to marry me.
Or at least, the woman he thinks I am.
What kind of man offers marriage to help someone in debt?
I don’t get to contemplate such a question for long. Two men materialize at my sides, their bulk making me look even smaller than my five-foot-four frame already does.
“Ma’am,” one says, not bothering to hide his scrutiny. “Time to get you ready.”
“Ready?” I echo, the word catching in my throat.
“The guests have arrived,” the other grumbles.
There’s been a mistake—but the words never make it past my lips. Because if I tell them the truth—if I tell them I wasn’t her—
Would they let me leave?
Would they let Chiara live?
Not when I catch the subtle bulge beneath his jacket. A gun. Of course there’s a gun.
And with it, the sharp reminder of what defiance could cost Chiara.
They escort me down a corridor, their hands hovering near my elbows without quite touching me. But I know if I try to run, they won’t think twice before breaking my bones.
We stop at a door, which opens to reveal what can only be described as a bridal suite. Three women wait inside, surrounded by cosmetics, hair tools, and—my stomach drops—a wedding dress suspended from a hanger like a ghost. They all look up as we enter, their faces breaking into wide smiles as they stand and rush towards me, making me the center of attention.
“Please,” I say to the retreating men, leaving me alone with these strangers. “I’m not—”
But they slam the door shut behind them.
I turn back to the waiting women, my heart pounding in my chest.
“My, my,” one of them, a young thing, fawns over me as she grabs my hand and leads me to a waiting chair. “Aren’t you gorgeous?”
“Don’t be nervous, darling,” another says as she takes my hand and begins testing color swatches. “Though, of course, every bride is.”
I sit there, mute, and watch my world close in around me. My throat clenches up in fear. My future, one where I imagined a wedding to a man I loved, dissipates right in front of my eyes.
In this moment, the horror of what awaits becomes glaringly obvious. I’m to be this Marco Bianchi’s wife, and he, in every sense of the word, owns me now because of what my sister did. He can make me do anything, be anything, and I’ll simply have to play along.
“Shh,” the make-up artist says. “I’m trying to get your eyeliner right.”
I close my eyes and let myself drift back to a rare place of comfort—a sliver of proof that maybe it won’t be all pain and darkness. I remember that night he lay in my bed. He was relentless, commanding—he took what he wanted without hesitation. But he also gave.
Never before have I felt pleasure so raw, so consuming. Never before have I felt beautiful in a way that cut through every doubt and fear. There’s something about him—something primal and unsettling—that tells me he doesn’t take pleasure in stealing what isn’t willingly given. No. His power comes from breaking you down until you’re begging, desperate for even a taste of what he offers.
I know this path won’t be easy. It will challenge every part of me, strip me bare. But somewhere deep inside, I sense it won’t be all bad. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something worth holding onto in the darkness he brings.
Time slips away while they do my makeup and hair, my eyes closed the whole time.
“All done,” the hairdresser whispers at last, and I stand.
“Here, sweetheart,” the young one says as she brings over the dress. “Mind if we help you change?”
I take the dress and go behind the curtain, slowly sliding it up. It’s too tight, I realize as I put it on. I can’t wear a bra, and with trembling hands, I slide it off.
Unable to zip it up wholly from the back, I emerge from behind the curtains to the sounds of gasps. Gasps I always imagined would come from my sister or friends—never strangers. But today, it’s only three strangers whose names I don’t yet know.
“Here,” one of them says as she comes forward. “Let me zip you up.”
I don’t fight it. Fighting would mean running, and running would mean Chiara pays the price. So I stand still as they prepare me for a man who thinks he knows who I am.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I fooled him once, wearing her skin and name. And now I’m doing it again—with far more to lose. A one-night stand was okay to live out a lie with—a marriage is a whole different ballgame.
When they finish putting on the final touches, one of the women leads me to a mirror. I glance at myself in the mirror and barely recognize what’s staring back. My hair’s been twisted up, pinned so tight I can feel the tug with every blink, but there are gentle strands framing my face. Tiny pearls are tucked into the coils, making me look like something out of a book of enchantments. The make-up makes my skin glow, my eyes look a little wider, a little more…compliant.
I look ethereal, almost untouchable.
I’ve never looked more beautiful, yet never felt more terrified. I slide my gaze down my body and feel my neck heat at the sight staring back. The satin dress I have on is soft as air, but clings in ways that make me feel naked. It’s got tiny, thin straps that leave my arms bare and scoops down low, revealing the mounds of my breasts. It cinches at my waist so tight, I can see every dip, every curve and then, I see the slit. It’s high, almost to the top of my thigh. I turn and look over my shoulder, noticing the way it tightens above my hip and flares out into a small, comfortable trail.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever worn—and knowing that over a hundred eyes will be on me today, including his, sends a shiver of fear straight through my core.
A hand brushes my shoulder. “It’s time to meet your husband.”
