Daunting Dream

Chapter 16.

Chapter 16: From Vows to Vendettas

Dream Dauntson.

Morning had barely broken, but I was already wide awake. Not that I slept much anyway. How could I, when I had just survived a wedding with Devon Damien Drawson—the Drowning Demon himself—and now had to face the aftershock?

Yesterday, I became a wife. Today, I might become a widow. Not because he’ll die, but because I might just kill him myself.

I yanked off the cathedral-length veil still tangled in my hair and groaned. The pins clung like stubborn regrets. "Why did I say 'I do'? Why didn’t I say 'I don't,' 'I won’t,' or better yet, 'I’m calling the police'?"

My voice was muffled by the pillows, but the room heard me. The walls, the chandeliers, the expensive air—everything bore witness to my misery.

"Sweetheart, breakfast is ready!" my mother called cheerfully from downstairs like she hadn’t just signed me off to Lucifer in a three-piece suit.

Of course she was cheerful. She’d washed her hands of me. Mission accomplished. Her daughter was married—never mind that she was married to a man who might one day sell my soul in a business deal.

I dragged myself to the mirror. The blush champagne wedding gown from yesterday still shimmered like betrayal in tulle form. Wrinkled and defeated, it hung like a ghost of yesterday’s disaster. I tossed it across the room with more force than necessary.

Dorey’s miniature version hung neatly beside it—pure white and innocent. Unlike me.

The robe I pulled on was silk. Black. Like my mood. Like my heart. Like my future. I cinched the belt tightly, as though strangling myself would somehow make this marriage less suffocating.

By the time I trudged downstairs, the smell of coffee and croissants hit me, softening my mood for all of half a second.

The whole Drawson family was downstairs. Already. Smiling. Creepy.

Devon sat at the head of the table, calm and smug like a villain at a victory brunch. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, cufflinks glinting like silent threats. His hair was perfectly in place, as though the chaos of yesterday had never touched him.

"Morning, Mrs. Drawson," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of ownership, possession, inevitability.

I wanted to throw a croissant at him. Preferably one laced with cyanide.

Instead, I said, "Morning, Mr. Drowning Demon. Still floating in your lies, or have you drowned in them yet?"

He smirked. "Your sarcasm is even more radiant than your wedding glow."

I narrowed my eyes. His ability to twist everything into a compliment was infuriating.

Dorey bounced in with a tiara still on her head. A tiara. At breakfast. Who even wakes up like that? "Mama! Daddy says we’re going to our new home today!"

My jaw dropped. "Excuse me? What new home?"

"The one I bought us," Devon said, sipping his coffee like this was normal. "We're moving."

I blinked. Twice. "Moving? Like, packing our lives into boxes and being trapped in a house with you until one of us commits a felony?"

"Exactly," he said cheerfully.

My mother beamed, betrayer that she was. "It's a beautiful house. And the best part—it has a garden for Dorey!"

"The best part," I snapped, "would there be a panic room I can lock myself in when his face becomes too punchable."

The table went silent. My mother glared. Devon laughed softly, unfazed, like my insults fueled him.

Devon stood and adjusted his cufflinks, slow and deliberate, like a man about to close a deal he knew he’d already won. "Well, shall we? Our car is waiting."

The ride to the new house was eerily calm, like the peace before a Category 5 hurricane. Devon sat beside me in the back seat of a luxury SUV, scrolling through his phone like we weren’t driving toward domestic doom.

I stared out the window, arms crossed, mood darker than my eyeliner. The city blurred by, every building mocking me. "Are we heading to a home or a haunted castle?"

Devon glanced at me. "That depends. Are you going to be the banshee wife or the bewitching bride?"

"Oh, I'm definitely leaning toward banshee. With just enough witch to make your life interesting."

He chuckled. "I’ll take my chances."

"That’s the problem. You always do. That’s how we ended up married."

He leaned closer, his cologne clouding the air between us, dangerously intoxicating. "And yet, here you are. Mrs. Drawson."

"Don’t remind me. I’m still considering annulment. Or exile."

Devon smiled like he enjoyed my suffering. Typical.

When we pulled into the driveway, I nearly choked. It wasn’t a house. It was a mansion. A palace. Possibly a small country.

"Is that a fountain shaped like Poseidon... riding a unicorn?"

Devon smirked. "You like it? I had it commissioned."

I blinked again. I was going to need new eyes to believe this life.

Inside, the house was even more ridiculous. Chandeliers dripped from ceilings so high they needed their own weather system. Velvet curtains heavier than my regrets. Spiral staircases coiled upward like snakes. And—God help me—an actual elevator.

I whispered, "This isn't a home, it's a villain's lair."

Devon leaned in. "Welcome to your villain era, Mrs. Drawson."

Before I could scream, our phones buzzed simultaneously.

A text.

From an unknown number.

"Congratulations on your union. Enjoy it while it lasts. Vengeance is sweet... and served in stilettos. Yours truly, Ivay."

My stomach plummeted.

Devon’s face darkened. His jaw tightened, his hand gripping the phone like he wanted to crush it. "She wouldn’t."

I snapped. "Oh, she WOULD. And she probably already HAS."

Suddenly the house didn’t feel like a mansion anymore. It felt like a war zone.

Devon grabbed his phone and started dialing. "I’m calling security. I’ll triple it. She won’t come close."

I stood in the foyer, arms crossed. "Oh, she’ll come close. Because vengeance isn’t about distance. It’s about precision. And high heels."

My mind spiraled. Memories of Ivay flooded in—her smile too sweet, her eyes too sharp. At a gala once, she poured red wine on her ex’s white tux when he flirted with another woman. At another event, she booked a flamenco band to interrupt her ex’s wedding. The bride cried. The groom danced. The marriage ended in six months.

She didn’t just seek revenge. She orchestrated it.

Just then, a package was dropped at our door.

No name.

I picked it up slowly and opened it.

Inside was a velvet box. I opened it.

Inside? A broken wedding tiara.

Dorey gasped. "That looks like mine!"

I looked at Devon. "You better start praying, because this is not just a threat. This is a promise."

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Ivay’s not brave enough to come after you."

I turned to him, fire in my eyes. "Then clearly, you’ve never met a woman scorned."

The rest of the day was chaos. Security detail doubled. Men in black suits swarmed the grounds. Devon held secret meetings in his office, his voice low, clipped, angry. I paced around like a lioness in heels, restless, watching every shadow.

As I passed one of the balconies, I caught a reflection of myself in the glass. And for a moment, I didn’t recognize her—the girl who used to daydream about fairy tales. She was gone. In her place stood a woman who married the demon in disguise, out of duty, out of strategy… maybe even out of a twisted version of love.

I thought back to my mother’s face at the wedding. That satisfied smile. She hadn’t just been happy. She had looked triumphant.

And now I understood why. She hadn’t just married me off. She’d married me up. Into wealth. Into power. Into danger.

By nightfall, we finally collapsed into the massive bedroom.

I didn’t say a word as I changed into pajamas—black, again. My armor of choice.

Devon leaned back against the headboard, shirt half unbuttoned, smirk still intact.

"You’re still mad."

I gave him the look.

He tried again. "You looked beautiful yesterday. I meant every word I said."

I crossed my arms. "What about what you didn’t say? Like how your ex has a PhD in revenge and no sense of boundaries?"

He sighed. "I’ll protect you."

I stared him down. "You better. Because this time, I’m not just Dream Dauntson. I’m Mrs. Drawson. And if Ivay wants a war... she’s got one."

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Now that’s my wife."

I threw a pillow at him.

We both laughed.

But deep inside... I knew this was just the beginning.

From vows to vendettas—let the games begin.