Chapter 10: Wait! What?
1436 Words
I hardly have a chance to open my mouth before the girl turns and rushes away from me like a speck of dust on the impeccable surface of her life. No word, no glance, but the instant echo of her heels off smoth surfaces as if she's afraid that I'll follow in after her. Like an obedient little ghost bride.
And worst of all, I do.
Not because I'm confident in her.
Not because I'd choose to.
But because something inside me is breaking—and to follow her is simpler than remaining still. My legs work, my brain does not.
We move through infinite corridors carved out of luxury and silence. The air is too pristine. The walls are too pale. Everything smells like power and refined deceit. The kind of place where no one ever raises their voice because their secrets are loud enough.
My hands tremble against the fabric of my borrowed gown. I don't belong here. Each step echoes that truth.
This isn't mine. This isn't mine. This isn't mine.
A memory slices through the fog.
That cold hard stone chamber.
The sensation of unfamiliar hands on me.
The one with smoke and knife in his voice.
The flavor of the unwanted kiss.
The vows I never said but said.
The wedding I never agreed to.
I shut my eyes.
Convince myself that I imagined it.
That maybe—I hit my head, and all of this is some great nightmare embroidered from cuts and expensive perfume.
But the ache between my ribs speaks otherwise.
We stop.
Before a door that does not look like a door.
No. It looks like a gate to the end.
It towers over us—sophisticated, heavy, so completely flamboyant that I swear it breathes. The girl barely hesitates. She opens it like she owns the house. Like she owns me.
I stay behind.
At the door.
Not quite in. Not quite out.
And then I see them.
Two men. One sitting like a king exhausted of his kingdom. The other—God.
The other is him.
My breathing stutters.
My heart recalls how to stay silent.
He's sitting like he never broke me. Like he never kissed me with a kind of death in the back of his mouth. Like we never stood beneath a sky of blackness and inhaled a lie into existence.
The man I married.
The stranger whose name I don't even know.
I’m still frozen in the doorway when the girl disappears. Literally. She slips out without a word, leaving me behind like a piece of unfinished business.
The door clicks shut.
Loud enough to sound like the start of a sentence.
Or the end of one.
I’m alone.
With them.
The old man's eyes lock with mine. He doesn't smile. Not exactly. Just lifts the corner of his mouth like he knows how this tale is going to go and he's already sick of me.
"Ah," he says, voice as smooth as an old river.
"The bride. Finally."
It creeps down my spine, his voice.
Slathered in amusement and judgment and worse—expectation.
I don't speak. I can't.
He points at the chair across from him with two fingers. Like I'm some stray he's letting sit at the table before he decides what I'm worth.
"Sit," he orders.
And I do.
My body obeys, though my soul is halfway to running.
I sit stiff, fingers locked too tightly in my lap, heart pounding against my ribcage like a prisoner begging to be freed. The man beside him—the younger one, the one with the pointed chin and eyes that won't meet mine—speaks not a word.
He has not said a word. Not since I came.
Not when our gazes met. Not even now.
His silence is a condemnation.
The old man leans forward. Fingers steeple above the smooth wood.
"What is your name?" he inquires.
I blink.
That is what he needs to know?
"My... my name is Liana," I whisper. The sound of it is out of place in this room. Like I've just said a sacred word before people who do not believe.
He nods his head. One nod. Measured. Cold.
"Liana," he says again. "Interesting.".
I lock my knees together. Strive to choke down the tremble in my voice. "Please. I have no idea why I'm here."
Nothing from the man to his left so far.
The older one takes a step closer, shadows behind his eyes rolling up like smoke.
"Do you know a girl named Stella?"
I take a deep breath.
That name. That damn name.
Stella. In the bridal store. The one who looked like me. The one who wanted my shirt. The one who smiled like she knew I'd regret the day I agreed.
"I… no. Not really. She just—she wanted to swap tops. Said she liked it. That's it. I didn't know—" My voice breaks like glass.
The man watches me. Not like he thinks of me. Not like he doesn't. Just. watching and Breaking down things.
“And then the men came,” he finishes for me.
“Yes.”
Another nod. Slower this time. Like a clock ticking toward something inevitable.
He glances at the silent man beside him.
The stranger who saw me in a veil and did nothing.
They share a look. A silent conversation I’m not invited into.
Then the older man reaches beneath the table and presses something. A soft click echoes.
“Bring it in,” he says.
A nicely dressed man walks in. He carries a file as thick as lies. Places it before me like an offering or a trap.
He waits. Glowers at me like I'm a puzzle he's already solved.
"I am Mr. Volmore. This is my son, Dante."
The name drops like a curse. Or a prophecy. Or both.
Dante.
The man who didn't say no.
The one whom I kissed like I loved to.
The one who still hasn’t said a damn word.
I look at him.
He looks away.
“You’ve made it this far,” Mr. Volmore says. “Now it’s time to choose.”
He doesn’t explain what I’m choosing between.
Freedom or safety. Truth or comfort.
My soul or… something worse.
“That is a contract,” he says. Pointing his chin up in the air towards the file in front of me.
I blink.
Just once.
But the air grows thick. Grows cold—like a door had been opened into some forgotten, ungodly realm and allowed it to trickle in through cracks. My hands grip the table, sweaty, though I pretend like I'm fine. Always do. My fingers twitch, like the only part of me man enough to tell the truth about the fear that's fighting its way up my throat.
The contract sits between us like a coffin waiting for its name.
He speaks, voice rich and oily, like velvet hiding broken glass. “Two years, Liana.”
My name in his mouth feels like a curse.
“Two years of marriage. With my son, Dante. And after that? You’re free.”
Free.
The word floats above us like a balloon. Pretty. Hollow. Ready to pop.
I look at the paper. Ink and promises and legal poison. It's dreamlike. Like watching in front of some Netflix thriller but I'm not in front of the TV—I'm the dumb protagonist doing all the wrong things and people are screaming at the TV.
I hear myself saying before I can stop it: "What's the catch?"
His smile seeps onto his face slow, reptilian. Not joy. No. Amusement, maybe. That kind of pleasure you feel when someone walks into a trap you've set with precise precision.
"No catch," he growls. "You stay married. You smile. You play the part of a devoted wife. In return, you receive—well. Let's just say… a fortune."
His fingers lace together as he reclines, still watching me like I'm a prey he’s already devoured.
“Billions, Liana. Enough to rewrite the story of your life. Forever.”
My gaze drops to the contract again. It’s neat. Crisp. Deceptively clean. Like a snake coiled under silk sheets.
“And after two years?” My voice is a whisper now. A prayer to something I’m not sure is even listening
“You’ll divorce Dante.” He says it like he's talking about taking out the trash. “But by then, the narrative will be set. You’ll be the unfaithful wife. The woman who broke vows. The villain of the story.”
- Writer
