Chapter One: The Wrong Groom
720 Words
The lace of Amira Valenti’s wedding dress felt like a noose.
She stood in front of the gilded mirror, motionless, watching the reflection of a girl who looked like a bride, but felt like a prisoner. The silk clung to her curves like cold water, her hair pinned in soft waves, her lips glossed in rose gold. Perfect. Polished. Like a doll someone else had dressed.
A good daughter. A silent bride. A sacrifice wrapped in white.
The room was too quiet.
Downstairs, a hundred guests were waiting. The chandeliers were lit. The music was supposed to be playing. But all she could hear was the tick of the antique clock on the wall and the blood rushing behind her ears.
Her phone lay silent on the table beside her. Still no message from Daniel Moretti. No call. No apology. Nothing.
She should have seen this coming.
The man she was supposed to marry had never truly looked at her. Not once during the engagement dinner. Not during the legal signing. Even the ring he’d sent her was impersonal — gold, beautiful, but empty.
Still, she hadn’t expected him to disappear.
A soft knock made her jump. Before she could answer, the door creaked open.
She turned, her chest tightening. Her father stood in the doorway, face hard, lips pressed thin.
But it was the man behind him who stole the air from her lungs.
Tall. Dressed in black. A presence like smoke. Dark hair swept back, eyes the color of cold iron. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even look curious.
Lucien Moretti.
Daniel’s younger brother. The black sheep of the family. The one whispered about in quiet corners — the one rumored to do the dirty work Daniel was too clean to touch.
What is this, Amira asked, her voice catching in her throat.
Her father didn’t move. His jaw worked, like he didn’t want to say it.
Daniel backed out.
The words landed like a slap. Cold, final, cruel.
Backed out. As if this were a business meeting. As if she were just another deal collapsing on paper.
You can’t be serious, she said, barely above a whisper. Her hands trembled at her sides.
We can’t afford a scandal, he said, eyes hard. The guests are here. The press is outside. We need this alliance.
She looked back at Lucien. He hadn’t moved from the doorway, but his eyes were fixed on her — unreadable, steady, cutting through her like a blade.
And him, she asked, her voice shaking. Why him?
Lucien stepped forward then, slow and sure. There was no nervousness in his stride. No hesitation. Just quiet command.
Because I don’t run, he said.
His voice was low. Smooth. Dangerous.
You’re marrying me now.
Amira took a step back, her pulse thundering in her ears.
I don’t know you.
Lucien’s expression didn’t change.
You’ll learn.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Calm. Cold. Certain.
Her eyes darted to her father again. He said nothing. Offered no way out. Just a blank silence that told her the decision had already been made — without her.
I didn’t agree to this, she whispered.
You didn’t have to, he replied.
She stared at him. At the dark line of his jaw. At the shadows beneath his eyes. This man wasn’t a groom. He wasn’t here for love or vows or forever. He was here for power. And she was the leverage.
Her voice cracked.
Why would you even want to marry me?
Lucien’s mouth curved into something between a smirk and a threat.
Because it sends a message.
She felt her stomach twist. She didn’t know what message he meant, or who it was meant for. All she knew was that the boy who should have been her husband had vanished, and in his place stood something far more dangerous.
Lucien turned to leave.
The ceremony starts in ten minutes.
He didn’t wait for her answer. The door shut softly behind him, leaving Amira in the silence.
She stood there, heart pounding, breath shallow.
Married to Lucien Moretti.
No escape. No choice. No time to think.
Her wedding had turned into a war. And the man waiting at the end of the aisle wasn’t a prince.
He was the devil’s heir.
And she had just been claimed.
- Writer
