Chapter 11: Forced Vows
1157 Words
Valentina sat in front of the mirror, completely drained.
She felt so empty, she felt that heavy feeling after you’ve cried until your body gives up.
She hadn’t slept all night. Not a second.
And now it was morning, and a wedding dress she didn’t ask for had been forced over her head. She sat stiffly while unfamiliar hands moved around her, brushes sweeping across her face, trying to hide the dark circles and swollen eyes.
She stared at her reflection, at the pale girl with messy hair staring back at her, and she couldn't find traces of Valentina.
Then one of the makeup artists stepped closer—an older woman, with soft wrinkles and a calm face. Something about her gentleness tugged at Valentina.
She looks like Mama Gloria.
So suddenly it hurt.
Before she could stop herself, Valentina reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand.
The older woman froze, surprised.
Valentina’s voice barely came out.
“Please… can you help me?”
The woman blinked, not understanding.
Valentina swallowed hard, her throat burning.
“I just need one phone call,” she whispered. “Just one. I want to hear Mama Gloria’s voice. Please… please, I just want to hear her.”
Her eyes filled instantly. Tears gathered and spilled before she could blink them away.
“I won’t run. I won’t make trouble. I just—” her voice trembled, “I need to hear her voice.”
The older woman looked at her long and slow, something softening behind her eyes. Pity. Pain. Maybe even recognition of a mother far away from her child.
She hesitated, glancing toward the guarded door.
Valentina’s voice cracked completely.
“Please. I’m begging you.”
The woman took a quiet breath, her hand trembling in Valentina’s.
“Give me a minute,” she murmured.
She stepped out. Valentina waited—heart punching against her ribs, breath shaking.
A minute later, the woman came back and slipped a phone into her hand.
“You have five minutes.”
Valentina’s relief broke through her like sunlight through a crack.
“Thank you… thank you,” she whispered, gripping the phone.
Her fingers shook as she dialed the number she had memorized since childhood.
One ring.
Two rings.
“Hello—”
The second she heard that familiar voice, everything inside her shattered.
“Mama Gloriaaa—” Valentina sobbed, the cry ripped straight from her chest.
There was a sharp inhale on the other end.
“Mia Stella?! Oh thank God. You’re safe… how are you?” Her voice cracked.
Valentina pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to breathe.
“Mama… I—I’m fine,” she lied, wiping her nose with the edge of a napkin.
Her next words broke her own heart.
“Mama, today’s my wedding day… and you’re not here. I wish—”
Her voice collapsed. More tears. More little, choked sounds she couldn’t stop.
“Mia Stella… bambino…” Mama Gloria whispered, trying not to cry herself. “I am always with you. Always. Please, don’t cry, my love.”
But Valentina couldn’t stop.
She didn’t want to hang up. She didn’t want this moment to end. She noticed the other makeup artists pause, pretending not to listen but clearly holding their breath, unsure how to react.
Across the room, the older woman lifted her fingers—time’s up. Valentina’s throat closed. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t done.
She forced herself to whisper a broken goodbye.
The call ended.
Valentina lowered the phone slowly, the weight of silence pressing down. Her gaze flicked to the older woman, who looked away for just a moment, a shadow of guilt crossing her face. She had taken the phone, yes, but she had felt the ache too.
And in that quiet room, with her reflection staring back, it felt like something had died.
_____
She entered the chapel on her own. No family, no friends, no soft music like she had dreamed—no Mama Gloria. Just a line of silent guards standing as witnesses.
Lucian stood at the altar—sharp in a black tailored suit, hair brushed back, expression unreadable. Behind him, the priest waited, imported from Sicily, no doubt. Legal or not, the man’s hands didn’t shake.
It looked more like a funeral than a wedding.
Valentina’s heels clicked as she walked the aisle, alone.
When she reached him, her eyes stayed on the ground, unwilling to look at the man who would become her husband against her will.
“You came,” she thought she heard, faintly, in his voice. A hint of mockery.
She eyed him from beneath her veil.
“Like I had a choice,” she said.
Lucian smirked faintly.
The priest began to speak in Italian.
She understood every word.
A vow. Each word like chains binding her tighter with every pronunciation.
Lucian’s hand was steady when he took hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles—possessive, almost gentle. She flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away.
“Valentina Moretti,” the priest said, “do you take this man, Lucian Romano, as your husband, to honor and obey—”
“I don’t,” she said clearly.
The chapel stilled. Even the rain seemed to pause.
Lucian didn’t blink.
Valentina met his gaze. “I didn’t come here to be his wife willingly. I was forced! How could you let this go on?”
The priest hesitated, lips parting to protest, but Lucian lifted a hand.
“You don’t have to say the words,” he murmured. “But you will wear the ring. You will take my name. And you will be mine.”
With Lucian’s signal, the priest repeated:
“Valentina Moretti, do you take this man, Lucian Romano, as your husband, to honor and obey—”
“I said I don’t! I’d drive a knife through his heart if I ever get the chance!” Her trembling, defiant voice echoed in the empty chapel, tears blurring her vision.
“I don’t want this!” she screamed. She turned to the stone-faced guards. “Can’t anybody help me?! How would you feel if it were your sister or daughter standing here right now?”
But all she met was silence.
“These are all my men. The sooner you stop making a fuss, the better,” he said darkly.
Valentina met his eyes in defiance and anger, hot tears rolling down her unwilling face. But was it still life if everyone had a choice?
The vow finished in Latin. He slipped a ring onto her finger. She did not return the gesture. He didn’t care.
The veil lifted, and his face came closer and closer until he kissed her.
Valentina didn’t respond. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as her first kiss was taken by someone she had never chosen. All her years of waiting, all her years of dreaming—gone.
- Writer
