The men flank me as I walk, matching me pace for pace as though to tell me I don’t really have a choice. There’s no room for bridal jitters here, no chance of starring in my own runaway bride story.
From the corner of my eye, I see one of them adjust the holster at his hip, and my breath hitches in my throat. Most brides get their fathers to walk them down the aisle. I get two men who smell like cologne and gunpowder. My heart begins to race, and my steps falter from the fear.
“Keep walking, Miss Rossi,” the taller one mutters beside me, his voice rough but tone kind. “The boss doesn’t like delays.”
The boss. Marco Bianchi. The man I’m about to marry under false pretenses. And Marco Bianchi has no idea that the woman walking toward him isn’t Chiara. I don’t know what will happen when he finds out.
My fingers twitch around the lilies. Sweat beads at my chest despite the cool air. The music swells behind the doors—not the traditional march, but something darker, more haunting. A warning in every note.
“You look beautiful, Miss Rossi,” says the other guard, almost kindly. “A perfect bride.”
The perfect bride for a debt collection. Nothing about this situation is even close to perfect.
The doors remain closed as we approach, and I fight the urge to run. Where would I go?
There’s no escaping a man like Marco—I already know that from everything I’ve seen and experienced. He must have paid Chiara a lot to throw me under the bus. The betrayal stings, sinking like a blade I never saw coming. Someday, I think angrily to myself, she’ll regret what she’s put me through today—and every other fucking day.
The music grows louder, and my stomach knots itself into a pretzel of anxiety. My heart hammers like it’s trying to break free. The veil obscures my vision slightly, making it easier to digest the nightmare that’s about to unfold.
“Ready?” the taller guard asks, though it’s not really a question.
The doors swing open, and the music crashes over me like a wave, drowning out the roaring in my ears. The church is full of people I don’t know, faces turning to watch me with curious eyes. I’ve never felt lonelier. Never thought I’d get married without a single loved one present. My dreams, my very humble dreams, come crashing down around me.
I look straight ahead while my knees tremble below me. And there, standing at the altar, is none other than Marco Bianchi.
Even from this distance, he’s overwhelming. Tall and imposing in a tailored black suit that clings to broad shoulders. Dark hair swept back from his forehead, revealing a face that could have been carved from stone. A small scar cuts through his right eyebrow, the only flaw in his perfect symmetry, like a warning sign that this beautiful thing is broken in ways that will hurt you.
The guards release me, stepping back. I’m alone now, expected to walk toward my jailer without an escort. My feet feel lead-weighted as I take the first step, then another. The dress now feels too tight, restricting my movement, forcing me to take small, measured steps. Each one feels like a surrender.
Marco’s eyes—deep, piercing green, even from halfway down the aisle—never leave me. His expression stays cold: no smile, no warmth. Then he lets his gaze drop, slide over my body, and I’m hit by every memory from that night in my apartment. Heat rushes to my neck, and my cheeks flush. I wonder if he’s picturing me naked right now.
I’m halfway to him when I realize I’m not breathing. I force my lungs to expand, but the corseted bodice fights back, allowing only shallow gasps that make me lightheaded. The flowers in my hand are slippery with sweat.
When I finally reach the altar, standing before him, Marco towers over me. He’s at least a foot taller, forcing me to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His presence is suffocating, more primal than any other man I’ve met. Power emanates from him like heat from a fire.
With deliberate slowness, his hands rise to my veil. His fingers, I notice, bear calluses. I know it’s not from hard work on the farm, given the wealth on display, the diamond and gold-studded watch he wears.
He lifts the veil, and as my face is revealed to him, something flashes in his eyes—suspicion, then something darker that makes my insides knot.
His gaze doesn’t stop at my face. It moves down my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the cinch of my waist, the swell of my hips beneath the satin dress. It’s not the look of a man seeing his bride—it’s the look of a man who knows he owns something, who’s imagining every way he’ll use his possession, who remembers what it’s like to have that power. There’s something in that look, a silent message: I see you. I know who you really are.
“Chiara,” he says, but the way his tongue curls around my sister’s name feels like an accusation. “You look…unlike yourself.”
And in that moment, I know he knows.
He knows I’m not Chiara. When he looked me up and down like that, he wasn’t imagining.
He was remembering.
A thrum of unwanted warmth pulses low, traitorous and alive, while panic blooms in my chest, dizzying and hot. I should run, scream, apologize, but I stand there rooted in the now. I hate myself for it, but there’s something in his dominance that calls to a traitorous part of me—the part that finds danger intoxicating.
The priest begins speaking, his words washing over me in a meaningless blur. I can’t focus on anything but Marco’s proximity, the subtle threat in his stillness, the way his jaw clenches as though restraining himself from something violent.
When it’s time for the rings, Marco takes my hand. His touch is electric, his fingers brushing against my palm in a way that feels deliberately intimate. A shiver races up my arm, and by the tightening at the corner of his mouth, I know he felt it too. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist where my pulse beats wildly, and it feels like he’s taking my vital signs, measuring my fear.
“I, Marco Antonio Bianchi,” he says, voice deep and steady, filling the church without effort, “take you, Chiara Rossi, to be my lawfully wedded wife.”
The emphasis he places on my sister’s name is subtle—too subtle for anyone else to notice—but it lands between us like a slap.
His vows continue, promises to cherish and protect. When it’s my turn, my voice fails me. The priest looks at me expectantly, and Marco’s hand tightens around mine in warning.
“I, Chiara Rossi,” I begin, the lie sour on my tongue, “take you, Marco Antonio Bianchi, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”
Each word feels like betrayal, to both Marco and myself. I struggle through the vows, my voice trembling. When I reach the final “I do,” Marco’s eyes narrow, and I know my reluctance has been noted, catalogued, added to whatever reckoning awaits me later.
“I do,” I whisper, the words barely audible even to myself.
Marco slides the wedding band onto my finger with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles as he settles the ring into place.
“By the power vested in me,” the priest intones, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He turns to Marco. “You may kiss your bride.”
The moment freezes in time. Marco’s hands rise to frame my face, not gently but with firm possession. His palms are warm against my cheeks, fingers threading into my hair at the nape of my neck. He pulls me toward him, not asking but taking.
When his lips meet mine, it’s not the gentle kiss of a church ceremony. It’s a claim laid bare, a dominance asserted. His mouth is firm and demanding, and when I gasp in surprise, his tongue sweeps in, exploring me with a depth that makes my knees weaken. One hand slides to the small of my back, pressing me close, letting me feel the hard planes of his body against the softness of mine.
It’s a kiss meant to humiliate, to show everyone watching that I am his to do with as he pleases. And yet, God help me, heat blooms low in my belly, and I find myself arching into him, responding to his dominance with a surrender that shames me even as it thrills through my veins.
When he finally releases me, I’m breathless and dizzy. The crowd applauds, oblivious to the battle that just occurred, the silent warning delivered with lips and teeth and tongue. Marco’s eyes hold mine, and there’s satisfaction in them now. He’s confirmed something—whether it’s my identity or my weakness to him, I can’t tell.
“Mrs. Bianchi,” he murmurs, for my ears only, conspicuously avoiding my sister’s name.
The reception is held in a ballroom that could fit my entire apartment building, including parking. Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings, there’s a champagne tower, waiters walk around with hors d’oeuvres I’ve never seen. Flowers scent the air—roses and lilies and orchids in arrangements taller than I am. A string quartet plays in the corner, their music floating above the conversations of hundreds of guests I don’t know.
Through it all, Marco’s hand stays firm on my waist, his fingers occasionally digging in when I falter in my responses to well-wishers. It’s a silent, constant reminder to play my part.
“Smile, Mrs. Bianchi,” he whispers against my ear as another couple approaches. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
I force my lips to curl upward, though the effort makes my face ache.
“Ah, Giovanni!” Marco greets the approaching man with the warmth he hasn’t once shown me. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Bianchi.”
Not Chiara. Just Mrs. Bianchi. I feel the terror rise in my throat again, of what’s to come when we’re alone.
“Lovely to meet you,” the man says, kissing my hand. “Marco is a lucky man.”
“I certainly am,” Marco agrees, his arm sliding around my waist, fingers splaying possessively over my hip. When the couple moves on, he squeezes, hard enough to make me wince but not from pain, from what he’s trying to tell me. “You’re doing well,” he says, “but not well enough. I thought you were the more effusive twin, Chiara.”
My blood freezes in my veins. He knows we’re twins. I let myself hope for a moment. What if… he’s angry because he didn’t know we were twins earlier. What if that’s it? The big secret he discovered?
I let myself hope. But something tells me he’s too smart to be shaken by such a thing.
The rest of the reception passes in a blur of introductions and champagne I don’t dare drink more than a few sips. I need my wits about me for whatever comes later. Marco is all charm and smiles for his guests, the perfect gracious host.
When it’s time for our first dance, Marco leads me to the center of the dance floor. The guests gather around in a circle, smiling at the beautiful couple about to perform their first dance as husband and wife. If they only knew.
Marco pulls me into his arms with practiced ease, one hand resting at the curve of my waist, the other clasping mine. He holds me closer than is proper, my body flush against his, and I can feel the hard lines of him beneath our formal clothes.
I tremble, worried I’ll make a fool of myself, and I glance up, wide-eyed and panicking.
“Follow my lead,” he says gently, to my surprise, and it’s both encouragement and a broader command.
The sweeping music begins, and Marco moves with unexpected grace for such a large man. He guides me across the floor, his steps confident and controlled. I’m no dancer, but his lead is so strong that I can’t help but follow, my body responding to his direction even as my mind rebels.
His hand slides lower, cupping my ass through the satin dress, and I gasp. He smiles with the quiet confidence of a predator.
“Something wrong?” he asks, spinning me out and then pulling me back, harder this time, so that I collide with his chest.
“People are watching,” I whisper, aware of the eyes following our every move.
“Let them watch,” he says, his thigh pressing between mine as we move. “Let them see how I’m going to take you apart later.”
Heat floods my face, and lower, a shameful arousal builds despite my fear—or perhaps because of it. His hand splays across my lower back, fingers dangerously close to the tattoo hidden beneath my dress, the hummingbird that marks me as Aria, not Chiara.
“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the exact spot where my ink is. “And here I thought you were scared to dance. I wonder what other secrets you’re keeping.”
He spins me again, and when I return to him, his hand slides up to the nape of my neck, gripping the fine hairs there and tilting my face up to his. It looks romantic to the onlookers, I’m sure, but there’s nothing romantic in the steel of his grip or the ice in his eyes.
“You look petrified, Mrs. Bianchi,” he says, lips barely moving. “I thought three days were enough to prepare you for this wedding.”
The music swells, and he dips me backward, his body covering mine, supporting my weight. From this angle, I’m completely at his mercy, vulnerable and exposed. His face hovers inches from mine.
“But here’s the thing about marriage,” he continues, his breath hot against my lips. “Even if you’re scared, you can’t just be out. They’re binding, regardless of who speaks them. You are my wife now. Mine to possess in every way”
He pulls me upright, continuing the dance as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just shattered my world with a few sentences. My legs are trembling beneath me, and only his firm grip keeps me from collapsing.
His hand strokes down my spine, possessive and threatening all at once. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”
“I… I’m yours,” my voice quivers as I speak.
The music comes to an end, and the guests applaud. Marco bows slightly, then pulls me into a kiss that’s all for show—passionate enough to make the crowd cheer, controlled enough to keep me aware of exactly who’s in charge.
When he releases me, his lips brush my ear. “And now, it’s time for us to leave. I believe we have much to catch up on, and it has been a tiring day. Besides, everyone knows a man can’t wait to find himself alone with his bride on their wedding day.”
There’s a dangerous edge in his tone that both scares me and pulls me in.
The reception ends with well-wishes and rice thrown and a limousine waiting at the curb. As Marco helps me into the car, his hand gripping mine with bruising force, I know the real consequences of my deception are only beginning. The door closes behind us, sealing me in with the dangerous man I’ve just promised to love, honor, and obey.
And God help me, despite my fear, despite knowing what he might do to me, part of me is curious. Part of me wants to know exactly how Marco Bianchi plans to make me pay for my sins. The part of me that responded to his kiss, that melted at his touch, that found his dominance thrilling even as it terrified me.
The limousine pulls away from the curb, carrying me to whatever fate awaits. Marco sits beside me, not touching me now, just watching with those cold green eyes that see too much.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” I ask.
“Now,” he murmurs, eyes glittering, “I take you home… and show you what it means to wear my name.”
