chapter 2
1124 Words
I didn’t remember how I got in the car.
One moment I was behind the curtain, fighting the hands that held me, trying to understand why my father had given me up like an unwanted heirloom… and the next, I was inside a sleek black vehicle, cool leather against my thighs, and across from him.
He sat like a god in mourning.
Black suit. Black gloves.
Now his mask is removed and God, he was beautiful.
Not soft-beautiful. Not the kind that made you smile.
He was breathtaking in the cruelest way.
Sharp cheekbones. A mouth carved from ice.
Eyes like obsidian fire, too dark to be warm, too deep to be empty.
He studied me like I was a sculpture. Unmoving. Unforgiving.
“I’ve read the dossier,” he said, voice smooth and precise. “You’re mouthy. Rebellious. Difficult.”
I didn’t respond.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette? No. A black ring box. He opened it and stared at the object inside. Not a ring.
A mark.
Burnished silver. Carved with a crest.
“I hate chasing things,” he said absently, closing the box.
The man beside him chuckled. Broader, rougher. His second in command, maybe. He leaned forward from the front seat.
“Still don’t believe in love, boss?”
He smiled, cold and effortless. “Why find something... when you can buy it?”
My stomach turned.
“I’m not for sale,” I snapped.
He glanced at me just once.
And then ignored me.
“Brat,” he said, almost bored. “You’ll burn yourself out before we even get home.”
That infuriating calmness. Like I wasn’t even a threat. Just noise.
I crossed my arms. “You’re disgusting.”
He didn’t blink.
His eyes dropped to the water bottle beside me.
“You’re dehydrated,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Drink.”
“No.”
He tilted his head, voice quiet. “Do you think I’m asking?”
I stared at him. His expression didn’t change. But something underneath it did a subtle tightening of his jaw. A warning.
So I took the bottle.
And drank.
I didn’t realize it was drugged until ten minutes later, when the lights started to shimmer, and his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
“Sleep,” he said, and for the first time… I heard softness in his tone. Not affection. Something worse.
Possession.
I woke up in silk sheets.
My head spun. My throat was dry again.
And in the doorway
“Wake up,” a voice said. “You’re getting married.”
I blinked.
A stranger stood there tall, severe, dressed in black like he was attending a funeral. Which, in a way, he was.
Mine.
He stepped into the room without asking.
Dropped something onto the bed.
A dress.
White. Laced. Beautiful.
Tragic.
I sat up. “What the f**k is this?”
The man didn’t answer.
He simply opened the door wider and nodded once. “Five minutes. He’s waiting.”
I looked down at the dress. My hands trembled.
I was really getting married. To him
I stepped out of bed and the floor was warm. No windows in the room. No phone. No door that locked from the inside.
And as I stood there in the silk slip they’d dressed me in, its thin fabric cold against my skin, staring at the white dress mocking me from the chair, I couldn’t help but whisper:
“You’re insane…”
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The silence outside my room was too heavy, too patient. Like the walls themselves were waiting for me to comply.
I didn’t.
I wasn’t going to play house. I wasn’t going to play bride.
If he wanted a puppet, he’d bought the wrong girl.
I was still shaking with what he’d done.
Drugged me. Stole me. Bought me.
Marriage?
Fuck him.
I heard footsteps.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Then… a knock.
But it didn’t wait for permission.
The door opened.
And there he was.
My buyer
No guards
Just him.
Dressed in black, the suit, the shirt, the tie like grief had wrapped itself around beauty and made a man of it.
His eyes landed on the dress in a heap on the floor.
Then drifted up to me.
Sitting. Undressed. Defiant.
We stared at each other in silence.
One beat.
Two.
Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
“I said,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, “get dressed.”
“No,” I said.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move toward me.
He just looked at me the way fire might look at dry wood.
“This is your wedding day,” he said, as if explaining something simple to a child. “You will be dressed when they open the doors.”
I stood slowly, crossing my arms, chin high.
“I’ll be gone before they do.”
He tilted his head, studying me.
Something in his mouth tightened.
Something new.
Not anger. Not surprise.
Just interest.
He walked toward the bed.
I tensed.
He picked up the dress. Brushed it off like it mattered.
Then turned and tossed it onto the bed.
Then stepped closer to me.
“You think I’m here to negotiate?”
“I think you’re used to people bowing,” I whispered. “I’m not one of them.”
He reached out slowly. One finger just one traced the edge of my jaw.
“Not yet,” he said.
I slapped his hand away.
That was when the mask cracked.
Just a flicker not fury. Worse.
Amusement.
He stepped forward, closer.
I backed up, and the side of the bed took the edge of my knees.
He just looked down at me, eyes dark, voice smooth.
“You can make this ugly, Carmela. Or you can walk out in white and keep the illusion.”
I swallowed. My skin felt too tight.
“You don’t scare me,” I lied.
He leaned in, his lips nearly at my ear.
“I don’t need to scare you,” he murmured, “I already own you.”
And then
He moved.
One swift step back.
Reached for the chair.
And held up the dress again, eyes never leaving mine.
His next words were silk-wrapped steel:
“Put it on.”
My feet didn’t move.
He took a single step forward, slowly, like a predator giving prey one last warning before it pounced.
And then
The knock at the door came again.
A voice beyond it: “Sir? They’re ready.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
His voice dropped into something colder, final:
“You have ten seconds.”
- Writer
