Married By Mistake

Chapter Three - Vows and Lies

“You’re going to regret this sooner than you think, and we’ll be here to laugh at you.” Uncle Carlo’s words echoed in my head as my driver pulled up in the parking garage of the church.

I should have known this day wouldn’t be normal. Nothing about my life had ever been. But I wasn’t prepared for chaos to strike the very moment I stepped out of the car.

The flashes hit me first—paparazzi, reporters, gossip-hungry strangers who had sniffed out my impulsive engagement like vultures.

My gown shimmered under the sunlight, every camera eager to devour the image of Isabella Romano, heiress of the Romano Empire, about to wed a man no one had ever heard of.

I lifted my chin and placed one foot in front of the other, refusing to let them see me hesitate. Inside, though, my chest burned. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even romance. It was a decision made in anger, in defiance, in grief.

And then I heard my name.

“Isabella!”

The voice was desperate, raw. My head jerked toward the sound, and my blood went cold.

Alessandro.

He looked nothing like the polished billionaire who had once begged for my hand at charity galas. His tie was crooked, his hair wild, his eyes red as though he hadn’t slept in days. He stumbled forward, past photographers, shouting over them.

“You can’t do this! You don’t know him!”

Gasps erupted from the little crowd of reporters. I froze, heat crawling up my neck.

Before I could open my mouth, Matteo moved.

It happened so fast I barely processed it—my fiancé lunging, his fist colliding with Alessandro’s jaw. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and brutal. Alessandro hit the ground, groaning, but Matteo wasn’t done. He straddled him, fists flying again and again.

“She’s mine!” Matteo snarled, his voice animal, guttural. “Stay away from her!”

“Stop!” I screamed, my veil shaking as I rushed forward. Security swarmed, pulling Matteo off before he could do more damage. Alessandro spat blood onto the pavement, his voice hoarse but loud enough to echo through my bones.

“You don’t know him, Isabella! He’s not who you think he is! He’s a gold digger!”

The words lodged in my chest like a shard of glass. I convinced myself he was just jealous I dumped his ass, then turned around and continued my walk.

Reporters shouted questions, cameras rolled. Alessandro was dragged away by security, shouting my name, while Matteo straightened his suit and wiped the blood from his knuckles like nothing had happened. His eyes met mine briefly, and what I saw there… chilled me.

A man unbothered by violence.

A man who looked proud of it.

I should have stopped then. I should have probably listened. But pride is a cruel master, and mine whispered that it was too late to turn back.

So I walked into the church with a stranger at my side.

⸻

The chapel felt emptier than a tomb.

No uncles, no cousins, no friends. My family’s seats were bare, their absence louder than any insult. The only attendees sat on Matteo’s side—a woman I assumed was his mother, her wrinkled hands folded tightly over a rosary, and a girl about my age with tear-streaked cheeks. His sister, perhaps.

That was it. That was the guest list for my wedding.

The priest’s words blurred together, a blur of vows and scripture, until the moment came. Rings exchanged, promises spoken. Matteo’s voice cracked when he said, “I do.”

Mine did not.

We signed the papers in the courthouse afterward, just the four of us and two strangers as witnesses. Court stamps, dry signatures, the legal binding of a contract the whole world had already seen but still couldn’t believe.

By the end of it, I was Isabella Romano no more. I was Isabella Delgado Romano.

My husband kissed me outside the courthouse steps, but his lips were stiff, his body tense. Cameras eagerly captured the moment for the world to see.

“You look like you’re suffocating,” I whispered against his lips.

He pulled back, his eyes darting away. “It’s just… a lot.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I told him. “You’re my husband now.”

He nodded, but his shoulders didn’t relax.

Later, when I asked if he wanted to move into my house that night, he hesitated. “Yeah, sure… but first I need to go home. There’s something I have to do.”

Something in his tone unsettled me. Like he was carrying a secret weight I couldn’t touch. Still, I forced a smile. “Of course. Take your time.”

He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then slipped into a car his mother had waiting. No goodbye, no reassurance. Just… gone.

I lingered in my own car, staring out the tinted window, my gown pooling like silk oceans around me. The silence pressed heavily. I thought of my mother, of how often she had cried when my father’s absence hollowed her. How she had begged me not to repeat her life. How, in her own twisted way, she had pushed me into this.

And now here I was, alone on my wedding day, trying to convince myself this wasn’t a mistake.

⸻

The buzz of my phone snapped me from my spiral. A message from Lucia, my cousin.

Lucia: Where’s your new husband?

I frowned. My thumb hovered over the screen before I typed back:

Why is that any of your business?

Her reply came with a laughing emoji.

Lucia: Click this link, Isa. You’ll want to see it.

Suspicion prickled my skin. I tapped the link.

A YouTube livestream opened. My breath caught.

There he was. Matteo. My brand-new husband. Sitting in front of a gaudy backdrop, microphone shoved in his face, answering questions for one of the most notorious gossip blogs in Italy. The same blog that had once dragged my mother through hell with fabricated scandals.

Except not my Matteo—this wasn’t the quiet, nervous man I had just married.

This man laughed nervously at the host’s questions, tugging at his collar. “It’s… It’s all very new,” he stammered, when asked about me. “I didn’t expect it.”

The interviewer leaned in, eyes gleaming like a predator who smelled blood.

“So tell me, Matteo. People are saying you married the money, not Isabella. Is it true?”

I held my breath, praying he would defend me. Praying he would laugh it off, protect me the way a husband should.

Instead, Matteo leaned back in his chair. And then he smirked.

A slow, cocky smirk that made my stomach twist.

“Of course I did,” he said, his voice calm, almost amused. “Who wouldn’t marry the Romano fortune if they had the chance?”

The audience gasped. The host nearly jumped from his seat.

And I—

I felt the ground rip out from under me.