THE DEBT COLLECTOR'S BRIDE

Chapter 3: The Wedding

By the time I said “yes,” I couldn’t tell if I was agreeing to save my life or destroy it.

Matteo’s driver arrived the next morning, black SUV idling outside my crumbling apartment like a shadow with an engine.

I didn’t pack much. A dress. A jacket. My mother’s silver locket. Everything else in my life was either sold or about to be taken.

The SUV door shut behind me with a weighty thunk. Matteo was already inside, dressed in a black suit that could have been cut from midnight. No tie today, just the top button undone, a glimpse of skin that shouldn’t have felt intimate but did.

“You’re early,” I said, sliding in.

“You said yes. I don’t waste time.”

“Or give it,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched like I’d amused him without meaning to. “City Hall first. Then the reception.”

I blinked. “Reception?”

“I told you appearances matter. People will want to see my new wife.”

The word “wife” hit me like a cold hand to the chest.

City Hall was a blur of papers, signatures, and a judge with a practiced smile. Matteo’s presence was magnetic and suffocating all at once, pulling every eye in the room.

When it came time to say the vows, his voice was steady, deep, and maddeningly calm.

When it was my turn, my hands shook around the small bouquet someone not me had chosen.

“Do you, Isla Vance, take Matteo Cruz—”

“I do,” I said, cutting the officiant off before I could think too hard.

And just like that, it was done. My name wasn’t mine anymore.

The reception was another world entirely.

The venue was an upscale restaurant downtown, its glass walls looking out over the skyline. Waiters moved like clockwork, trays balanced with champagne flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres I couldn’t pronounce.

I recognized no one, but I could feel every gaze on me — the new Mrs. Cruz. Some smiles were polite, others sharp with curiosity. A few looked like they wanted me dead.

Matteo’s hand rested lightly at my lower back as he guided me through the crowd, his touch both possessive and oddly… grounding.

“Smile,” he murmured without looking at me.

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder. They’re not supposed to see you nervous.”

I swallowed a retort and forced the corners of my mouth up.

Halfway through the evening, a tall man with ice-blue eyes approached. He looked me over with open suspicion before turning to Matteo.

“So this is the reason you missed the Milan meeting,” he said in a low voice.

Matteo’s hand tightened slightly at my back. “This is my wife.”

The man’s eyes cut to me. “Let’s hope she lasts longer than the last one.”

The last one?

Before I could ask, Matteo’s tone turned dangerous. “Careful, Luca.”

Luca smirked and walked away, leaving me with a dozen new questions and a knot in my stomach.

As the night wore on, the champagne in my glass was replaced before I could empty it, and Matteo never strayed far. Every time I drifted toward a quiet corner, he appeared again, a shadow with a pulse.

Finally, when the last guest left and the staff began clearing tables, he leaned down, his breath warm against my ear.

“Time to go.”

The SUV ride to his penthouse was silent except for the hum of the city outside.

When we stepped out into the private elevator, my pulse jumped. This was it, no more people, no more cameras. Just us.

The penthouse was everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for: floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble floors, and the kind of minimalism that screamed wealth and control.

Matteo loosened his jacket and tossed it over a chair, then turned to me.

“You can have the guest room or the master,” he said, like he was offering me a choice of coffee flavors.

I folded my arms. “I thought married couples shared a bed.”

His mouth curved not quite a smile. “We share a name. That’s enough for now.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t have—”

He stepped closer. “Wouldn’t have what?”

My breath caught. “Nothing.”

He studied me like he could read every word I didn’t say. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the master bedroom, leaving the door half-closed.

I told myself to go to the guest room. I told myself I didn’t care what he was doing.

But curiosity is a stubborn thing.

I drifted toward the half-closed door, drawn by the sound of running water. Inside, Matteo stood in front of a wall of glass, steam curling around him from the shower beyond. He was shirtless, muscles taut under golden skin, a gun holster still slung over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten to take it off.

He glanced up, catching me in the reflection. “Like what you see?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “You left your jacket in the other room,” I said stiffly.

“Keep it,” he said, unbuckling the holster and setting it down. “It looks better on you.”

I retreated before I did something stupid.

In the guest room, I found a fresh set of silk pajamas folded on the bed. My size. He’d planned this.

Sliding into them felt like slipping into someone else’s life, someone who belonged in this world of glass and marble and men who didn’t ask, they took.

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps. Quiet, measured, moving down the hall.

I crept to the doorway and peeked out. Matteo stood at the window, phone to his ear, his voice low but sharp.

“…She’s in. But I want eyes on her. If she makes one wrong move, I want to know before she does.”

A cold shiver slid down my spine.

I went back to bed, but sleep never came.

By morning, Matteo was gone, replaced by a note on the kitchen counter.

Wear something black. We have a meeting tonight.

Beneath it was a sleek black dress in my size.

And for the first time since saying yes, I realized… I had no idea what I’d married into.