The Last Legacy

Chapter 5

Mia’s POV

The air in the grand, sunlit drawing-room of the Godfrey estate felt strangely still, hushed, as the few assembled guests took their places. This was the wedding ceremony. Security was paramount, limiting attendance to a tightly curated group: Richard Godfrey, seated like a patriarch presiding over a transaction; Uncle Ben, his presence a silent nod of approval from the wider family; Emma and Seraphine, composed and watchful; John, his jaw still slightly bruised, his eyes holding a cold resentment that softened only slightly in the solemn atmosphere.

A small, authorized officiant stood ready. Guards were discreetly positioned at every entrance. This wasn't a celebration of love; it was the official binding of two empires, cloaked in the thin veil of tradition.

The weeks leading up to this day had been a blur of forced pleasantries and endless preparations. Seraphine, with her warm, genuine smiles, was the only happy volunteer, assisting wherever possible. I was fitted for gowns and shown fabrics, all while trying to ignore the crushing weight of my new reality. Andre remained distant, a phantom in the house, his presence cold and unnerving whenever we were forced to interact.

I stood beside him now, dressed in a simple, elegant gown that felt less like a bridal dress and more like a beautiful shroud. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I felt numb, detached, observing myself from a distance. He remained perfectly still beside me, a statue of a man, his expression controlled, unreadable as always.

He seemed calm, almost at ease, but I knew from our interactions that there were layers beneath that placid surface. We faced the officiant, the words of the ceremony washing over me like a foreign language, words of commitment, partnership, future, all twisted and hollow in this context.

When it came time to exchange vows, we spoke the required words, promises made under duress, witnessed by those who understood the true nature of the contract. The rings, cold metal circles, were placed on our fingers, symbols of a union forged not by love, but by power and survival.

The officiant's voice, steady and practiced, completed the final pronouncements, his words a dull roar in my ears. He declared us husband and wife, and the small group of guests offered polite, subdued applause. The ceremony concluded not with a kiss or a shared moment, but with a quiet, formal nod from Richard Godfrey, a gesture that signaled the transaction was complete.

I was led back to my suite, the same one I’d been in since my arrival. The room was now decorated, a few bouquets of flowers placed strategically around the space. It didn't feel like a bridal suite. It felt like a trap. Andre followed me in, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence was heavy, thick with everything left unsaid. He walked towards me, and I instinctively flinched. He reached for me, his hand on the small of my back, pulling me to him. I was stiff, a piece of wood in his arms. He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine, a cold, possessive gesture. I tensed, turning my head away.

He pulled back, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, one that held no warmth. "You're my property now," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I can have you anytime I want."

I ripped away from his grip. My eyes darted to the small, easily concealed knife I kept hidden in a drawer of the nightstand. I snatched it out, the glint of the steel a stark contrast to the plush room. I held it out, the point aimed directly at his chest. "Come on," I whispered, my voice shaking with a fury I hadn't known I possessed. "Come and try. See if you don't get a new scar."

He watched me, his expression flat, unreadable, and then, he did something I never would have expected. He laughed. A cold, humorless sound. He turned away and walked to the phone, and within thirty minutes, a woman arrived at my door. She was taller than me, and definitely more curvy, with a dark, predatory look in her eyes. I tried to leave, but his voice was a whip-crack across the room. "Stay," he ordered. "And watch."

Fuck this guy. I thought, my mind racing. This guy is a heartless monster.

He gave the woman a look. She began to strip, each movement a slow, seductive dance, her eyes never leaving his. Then, she knelt before him. He gave her a curt nod, and she took him in her mouth, her wicked tongue going to work.

He ordered her to the bed, and entered her from behind, his movements fast and precise. He was definitely huge and had a perfect body, no wonder he was so arrogant, I thought to myself. I couldn't help but get wet, even as I watched in disgust, my own husband f*****g another woman on our matrimonial bed on our wedding night. Who would have thought this would happen to me? f**k life

Just as he was reaching his climax, his phone rang constantly. He pulled out of her, picking up the phone. "What is it?" he said, his voice clipped.

"Boss," I heard the voice on the other end say, "one of our warehouses was just hit."

His expression darkened. "I'm on my way," he said, and hung up. He turned, reaching for his gun on the table next to me. I was faster. I snatched it first, the cold metal a familiar weight in my hand. I pointed it at the woman on the bed, my arm steady.

"Alright, b***h. Time to go," I said, my voice low.

She scrambled off the bed, her face pale with horror. She snatched her clothes and ran, not even bothering to look back. As she ran out of the room, I handed him his gun.

He looked at me, a glimmer of something I couldn't place in his icy eyes. "We'll handle this thing when I return," he said. "I see you need some ground rules."

He walked out, leaving me alone in the room. I sat on the edge of the bed, the fury a hot coal in my chest. I will never be a puppet, I thought. I’m a mafia princess and if he wants war, I will make his life miserable for doing this on our wedding night!,