The dress was immense, heavy, impossibly layered, and yet they handled it with the utmost care.
They helped me step into it, fastening the underlayers first, smoothing the silk over my skin, tying each ribbon and bow with meticulous patience.
Every motion was deliberate, repeated, ensuring nothing was askew, while I tried to remain still, overwhelmed by the strange, alien ritual.
Finally, they positioned me in front of the mirror.
I didn’t need words—their hands straightened the folds, brushed stray strands of hair, applied the last touches of makeup.
I looked up, and the reflection was surreal: a perfect bride, draped in silk and lace, every detail immaculate.
And yet the eyes staring back at me were mine: hollow, haunted, carrying the weight of every brutal memory of the past five years.
Trauma and beauty collided in that impossible reflection.
They stepped back, satisfied.
Silent, patient, almost reverent in the care they had taken, they allowed me a moment to breathe.
“It’s time.” The eldest of the three women stepped forward, hand lifted in a gentle but firm gesture toward the door.
Her tone was neutral, yet there was something beneath it—an unspoken weight:
A bride awaited in the hall, poised, ready.
And yet... there was the strange, unsettling sense that somehow, in this moment, another woman was about to step into her place.
I nodded, letting them guide me.
Step by careful step, I followed, my heart hammering, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear, disbelief, and resignation.
I had never felt this kind of nervousness in years—not even during the nights I had spent running for my life through dark alleyways, dodging bullets, or hiding from men who wanted me dead.
This was different.
It was heavier, a weight pressing on my chest that made every heartbeat feel like a drum of warning.
I didn’t know if it was because I was suddenly being made a bride, forced into a role I had never asked for, unprepared in every possible way.
Or if it was the knowledge that the original bride—the woman whose perfect day I had just stolen—was still in the hall, waiting, watching, poised to reclaim what I had no right to take.
Every step toward the main hall felt like walking a tightrope stretched over a pit of vipers.
Was I really being wedded, or was this a twisted form of execution, a spectacle designed to humiliate me, to send a message to anyone who might think to cross Vincenzo Orsini or his empire?
My pulse hammered so hard I was sure the three women behind me could hear it, each beat a deafening drum in my chest.
I pushed through the door, the hinges creaking under the pressure, and entered a narrow hallway.
Dim antique sconces lined the walls, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the dark oak panels like restless spirits.
My breath caught as I walked, each step tentative, the floor cold beneath my feet.
One of the women moved ahead, her posture rigid, movements precise.
Without a word, she guided me forward, her hand brushing lightly against my elbow, a small anchor in a storm of chaos inside my chest.
The hallway opened abruptly into a vast hall that stole my breath in a way no alleyway or prison cell ever had.
