I knew what came next without being told.
Swallowing hard, I began the long walk forward, each step tentative, weighted by the hall and the crowd.
The aisle stretched endlessly, polished marble reflecting the chandeliers above, each click of my heels amplified in the silence, ringing in my ears like a metronome marking my dread.
My heart raced in tandem, anxiety coiling tighter with every step, every gaze following me.
Every movement I made was dissected.
Every hesitation, every small falter in my posture, would not go unnoticed.
Inside, a storm raged—fear, disbelief, and a hundred unasked questions spinning at once.
How had I—just a few hours ago, running on empty, my body screaming with hunger, barely two steps ahead of danger, close to being caught, my life hanging by a thread—ended up here?
How had I gone from that desperate, hunted version of myself to a woman in white, draped in silk and lace, walking toward an altar, about to be married?
And to a world I barely understood—a world of power, violence, and rules I had never learned, where every smile might hide a blade and every vow could be a trap?
At the base of the altar, I paused, forcing myself to exhale slowly, to anchor my racing mind.
I glanced sideways at the discarded bride.
Her tear-streaked face had twisted into something darker.
Lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom.
Every glance she sent carried the weight of a knife, aimed straight at me.
I felt it as if the hatred could cut through bone.
She was coiled, ready to strike, radiating rage that was both personal and primal.
If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead on the spot.
Her fury was unfiltered.
I tore my gaze from the original bride, forcing my trembling legs to obey.
Summoning every ounce of control I had left, I began the slow, deliberate climb up the few marble steps that led to the altar.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the polished stone itself resisted my passage.
When I reached the top, the priest, an older man with solemn gray eyes and traditional vestments, gestured gently yet firmly toward the space before Vincenzo.
“Please, my child,” he said, his voice measured, carrying the authority of decades spent guiding hearts and souls. “Step forward and stand directly before Signor Orsini so that we may begin.”
I obeyed.
Now, mere inches separated me from Vincenzo.
The air around him was thick with his presence, a tangible gravity I couldn’t ignore.
His scent—expensive, woody, faintly spicy—washed over me, stirring a strange mixture of discomfort and fascination.
When our eyes met, the intensity struck like a physical blow.
There was no warmth in his gaze.
