The Ice Mafia's Bride

You know that feeling when your entire life flips upside down in one single moment? Yeah. That was me. Standing at the altar in a five-thousand-dollar dress, mascara already smudged, surrounded by two hundred people waiting to see me get married... And the groom? Gone. Not late. Gone. Like full-on vanished-without-a-trace, right before the “I do’s.” At first, I thought it was a joke. Maybe he got cold feet, maybe he was panicking in the bathroom, or maybe he forgot the ring. But no. My cousin’s panicked whisper confirmed it: > “He left with your best friend.” My best friend. Vanessa. The same girl who helped me pick my dress. Who planned my bachelorette party. Who smiled at me this morning like she didn’t just steal the man I was about to marry. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone punched me in the chest. And then came the whispers. “Did she get dumped?” “He ran off with the maid of honor.” “This is going to be all over social media.” I didn’t cry. Not yet. I couldn’t—not with all those eyes on me. So I did what any broken bride would do. I ran. I kicked off my heels and sprinted down the aisle, veil flying behind me, the silk train of my dress dragging across the floor like a funeral shroud. The doors flew open and I burst out into the blinding California sun. And then I saw him. Leaning against a black Aston Martin like some kind of movie villain. Luciano D’Angelo. The coldest man I’ve ever met. The billionaire mafia boss people whisper about in clubs and boardrooms. Also… my ex’s boss. He was watching me. Calm. Unbothered. Like this was just another boring Tuesday. “You here to laugh at me?” I snapped, out of breath, mascara running. “Because I’m fresh out of punchlines.” “No,” he said smoothly. “I’m here because it’s time.” Time? What the hell did that mean? I didn’t have time to ask because he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folder. Inside were… marriage papers. Marriage papers. I actually laughed. Like a full-on, semi-hysterical, slightly psychotic laugh. “You’re joking.” “I’m not.” “You seriously want me to marry you? Right now?” Luciano tilted his head like I was the one being dramatic. “You don’t have to. I can walk away. But your family’s company will collapse, the press will eat you alive, and your name will be buried next to ‘runaway bride’ for the rest of your life.” I stared at him. “Why me?” “Because I want a wife who doesn’t expect love.” Ouch. “And you think I’m that girl?” “I know you are. You’ve been lied to. Betrayed. Broken.” His words hit harder than they should’ve. “You know nothing about me,” I muttered. He raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re out of options.” And damn it, he was right. The Hart family fashion empire was crumbling. My ex, Liam, just humiliated me on the biggest day of my life. And the person I trusted most? She stabbed me in the back with a smile. So yeah. Maybe I was done playing it safe. Maybe it was time to burn everything down and start over with someone just as cold as I felt inside. I grabbed the folder. “Where’s the pen?” --- His penthouse was ridiculous. I’m talking marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a skyline view of L.A. that made you feel like the whole city was beneath you. Which, I guess, is how guys like Luciano lived—above everything. He handed me a glass of champagne. I took it this time. He didn’t smile, didn’t flirt, didn’t even sit close to me. “Why do you want a fake wife?” I asked, sipping even though my hands were still shaking. “I have enemies,” he said. “A wife is a shield. A distraction. A weakness people will underestimate.” I blinked. “Wow. Super romantic.” “I don’t do romance.” “Shocker.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This is a contract. One year. No expectations. No feelings.” I met his eyes—icy gray and unreadable. “I’m not falling in love with you,” I said flatly. “Good. Don’t.” We shook on it. No kisses. No vows. Just an unspoken deal made between two people who’d both had their hearts ripped out in different ways. I wasn’t his princess. He wasn’t my prince. We were just two broken people... signing up for something colder than love.