Chapter1
The Tension
Naomi
Iglare at my reflection in the gilded mirror, trying to ignore the stifling weight of my dress.The tight corset and intricate lace are reminders of everything wrong with today: no breathing room, no freedom, no choice.This mirror reflects everything I've tried to escape for the past five years—the expectations, the control, the suffocating traditions of a world I never asked to be born into.
The dress is a masterpiece of hometown craftsmanship, with hand-sewn pearls and French lace that probably cost more than most people make in a year.Each crystal bead catches the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows, creating tiny rainbows across the white silk.It's beautiful, undeniably so, but it might as well be a straightjacket designed by some sadistic fashion designer who believes women should suffer for beauty.I should also add that I had no input in its design or purchase.It is simply a garment that my family believes reflects who I am when they couldn’t be so far off the mark.
"I look ridiculous," I mutter, twisting to see the back where an endless row of tiny covered buttons march up my spine like soldiers in formation.
Nicole, my stepbrother Claude's girlfriend—or should I say my family-appointed handler—lounges on the settee by the window like she's watching an entertaining show rather than supervising a prisoner.She looks up from her cell phone, one perfectly manicured brow raised in that way that manages to be both amused and condescending.
"An expensive kind of ridiculous, though," she says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Would I have a say about this fiasco if the wedding dress was cheaper?"I ask her rhetorically, dripping in sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.
She shrugs with the casual indifference of someone who's never had her life orchestrated by others."Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Josephine?You're marrying a much hotter guy than I've got at home."
"Uh, that's my stepbrother you're talking about."I scowl at her reflection in the mirror."And thanks for the pep talk.Very inspiring."
The room we're in feels like a museum exhibit—all antique furniture and religious artifacts that speak to generations of Catholic guilt and family tradition.The walls are painted a soft cream color that probably has some pretentious name like "Angel's Breath" or "Divine Inspiration," and they're covered with paintings of saints who look like they've seen too much suffering to offer much comfort.
"And why do you have those tacky high-top sneakers on?"she quips back, gesturing toward my feet with obvious distaste."It's your freakin' wedding day.You should have gotten some stilettos."
I look down at my feet, wiggling my toes inside the custom Converse high-tops that are probably the only thing about this entire day that actually represents who I am.They're white to match the dress, but covered in hand-applied crystals and pearls that catch the light with every movement.
"Humph," I scoff."It took two weeks for the woman I hired from Etsy to put bling on these sneakers.I'm not changing anything about what's on my feet, especially for some bullshit wedding."
The shoes are my small rebellion, my tiny act of defiance in a day that's been planned down to the last flower petal without any input from me.If I'm going to be forced into this marriage, at least I'll be wearing something that reminds me of the woman I was in Los Angeles—independent, quirky, free to make my own choices about something as simple as footwear.
Nicole rolls her eyes, but before she can reply with another sarcastic comment, the door swings open without so much as a courtesy knock.In walks the man of the hour, Gabriel LaRoche, moving with that predatory confidence that's always made me simultaneously nervous and intrigued.
He doesn't bother knocking—why would he?He’s a part of the same world that my father is in.Men like him don't ask permission for anything.They take what they want and deal with the consequences later.He strides into the room like he owns not just this space but everything and everyone in it, his black tuxedo fitting him like it was designed specifically for his broad shoulders and narrow waist.
His dark eyes find me immediately in the mirror, and that infuriating smirk curves his lips—the same expression he's been giving me since we were teenagers, like he knows secrets about me that I haven't figured out yet.
"Bride prep is private," Nicole says, crossing her arms in a gesture that's more protective than authoritative.She might be here to keep me in line, but she's not completely heartless."You're not supposed to be here."
Gabriel doesn't even glance her way, his gaze staying locked on my reflection like he's studying a particularly interesting piece of art.His presence fills the room, making the air feel thicker, more charged with possibility and danger.
"This is the part where you're supposed to gasp and tell me how fucking good I look," I say, my tone sharp enough to cut glass.
"Go ahead, LaRoche," Nicole adds, settling back to watch what promises to be an entertaining show."Tell her."
His smirk deepens as he leans against the doorframe, hands sliding into his pockets with casual arrogance.The afternoon light streaming through the windows highlights the sharp angles of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair has been styled to look effortlessly perfect.
"What's the point of stating the obvious, Nikki?She already knows she looks good."
The casual arrogance in his response makes me want to throw the antique hand mirror at his head, but I force myself to remain composed.Years of living in my father's world have taught me that losing control in front of an audience is never a good idea.
“Nice,” I say, stepping forward so my dress rustles around me."Did you come to practice your vows, or are you here to ruin my day early?"
Gabriel pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between us with that fluid grace that's always reminded me of a lethal tiger stalking its prey.He's calm, confident—too confident for someone about to enter into a marriage neither of us originally wanted.
"I came to see if you're actually going through with this.Or if I should prepare for something dramatic like you fainting at the altar."
"Tempting," I say, tilting my head to study his face for any sign of what he's really thinking."But I wouldn't want to upstage you.Your 'brooding mafia prince' act might lose its shine if people saw how much effort you put into your hair."
