Fatal Flames

Sapphire’s POV. “You know, Sapphire. A wife must always obey. If he asks you to kneel, you kneel, anything he asks of you must be done.” I scoffed as I stared at my fingers rather than the mirror before me. “Even if he asks me to jump into fire?” I asked in a sarcastic tone. “Yes, even that. You must also learn to spread your legs as widely as he—” I choked on my own breath. “Mother!” My fingers curled into the silk of my wedding gown, but my mother did not care about any of it. Her hands, ice cold and devoid of care, simply fastened the pearl necklace around my throat, tightening it as if it was some sort of leash. But then, maybe it was her own version of a leash. “Oh please, don’t be so dramatic,” she muttered as she took a few steps back to inspect me. Dramatic? Really? She was marrying me off to Salvatore Moreti, the most feared man in the country. A widower whose past five wives have mysteriously disappeared, and she expected me to do what? Smile about it? “You need to learn to be more grateful, you know?” she continued, oblivious to the storm going on in my head, or maybe she was aware of it and she just didn’t give a flipping f**k about it. “Do you have any idea what kind of power and wealth this marriage gives you? You’re literally becoming the wife of a powerful king.” A powerful king. Right. That’s such a beautiful way to describe a monster. I decided to simply ignore her altogether and finally took the courage to look at my reflection in the gilded mirror in front of me. I stared at myself for a while as if trying so hard to recognize the woman staring back at me. The dress was perfect, with beautiful silk hugging my curves and lace screaming innocence. The veil was draped over my hair like some sort of funeral shroud. I would be so happy about this dress if it weren’t for the fact that this wasn’t an ordinary wedding. It was merely a contract. A sale even. I was merely everything a Moreti wife had to be—silent, obedient, and a perfect doll. I did not want this. I never envisioned this life for myself. Yet here I was, playing pawn in a game I never agreed to. My mother adjusted the veil, smoothing down the lace like I was her muse. Her mannequin, and not her daughter. A human. “Remember, Sapphire,” she whispered. “Always plaster a smile onto that resting b***h face of yours. You know how much he loves his women smiling, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your husband now, would you?” Husband. The word left a very bitter taste in my mouth. Salvatore Moreti was indeed my soon-to-be husband. I swallowed hard and nodded just before forcing my lips into a practiced smile, the kind I have had to perfect in the past few weeks. The kind that I hope would hide the fear clawing deep in my throat. Because I know what happens to women who disappoint Salvatore Moreti. They disappear. — A few minutes later, I was at the entrance of the grand cathedral with eyes on me as I was about to step into the aisle. It was packed with the most powerful men in the city—politicians, crime lords and many underworld kings. Their wives also sat beside them, draped in diamonds and silence. And as soon as I stepped into the aisle, I felt even more weight, the judgments and the whispers. But none of them mattered to me at the moment. Only one man did, and that was Salvatore Moreti. He stood at the altar, tall and broad in his custom black suit, like the godfather that he is in every sense of the word. The years seemed to have carved hard lines into his face, his silver-stroked hair slicked back in perfect order. His cold and unimpressed eyes dragged over me like I was some property he was about to buy, not a bride. My fingers tightened around my bouquet. ‘Get through the night, Sapphire. Just get through this night, and then you can figure out how to survive this.’ I chanted inwardly to myself. I braced myself and then I took a step forward as I started to walk down the aisle, only to immediately start hearing more murmurs. It was low at first but then the hushed voices got even louder and sharper. Sharp enough for me to pick up a lot. “He came back?” “After all these years?” “Was he not sent away by his father?” The more I heard, the more I knew that the murmurs were not about me but someone else. But I kept walking until I was about to step onto the altar and then I felt it. A very strong presence, one that slid over my skin like ice, like some invisible hands were trailing down my spine and curling around my throat. The presence seemed so familiar, so I turned my head and then my world stopped. Nico. He was here. Standing at the entrance of the cathedral I had just walked into, half in shadow, half illuminated by the golden chandeliers, was him. The man I love. The man I broke up with. The same man that I slept with just last night. Nico was standing in his real form in the same space as me. I suddenly felt like I could not breathe as my heart sank into my stomach. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—God, those eyes—were definitely filled with anger. Which was very new to me because I have always seen those eyes as soft, and maybe hungry, always gentle and possessive of me. But now, they felt like some sort of blade against my throat. I swallowed hard as I tried to form a single coherent thought but my mind felt blank. He looked at me, at the wedding dress on me and then at Salvatore. I expected him to create a scene, to tell the whole crowd about how I was just under him last night, but then he did what I did not expect at all. He smirked. A slow and cruel one. One that speaks to me that he was enjoying my fear, that he was in fact savouring it. Then lazily and somewhat deliberately, he mouthed the words, “Surprise, surprise, Mrs Moreti.”