THE WEDDING THAT WASN’T
1612 Words
The car came at exactly 8PM.
Black SUV. Tinted windows. No driver name.
I almost didn’t get in.
My apartment was 400 square feet and smelled like ramen and bleach.
The landlord had already taped an eviction notice to the door. "Pay by Friday or get out."
Friday. The same day Leo’s surgery was supposed to happen.
One bag. That’s all Damien told me to pack.
I put in 3 shirts, 2 jeans, Leo’s photo, and Mom’s rosary.
I stared at the empty closet for 10 minutes after.
That was my whole life. And it fit in one duffel.
The ride to the De Luca estate was 40 minutes of silence.
The guard up front didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t even blink.
I tried to ask him if Damien was dangerous. The words died in my throat.
When the gates opened, I forgot how to breathe.
The house wasn’t a house.
It was a fortress made of glass and black stone.
Waterfalls in the driveway that probably used more water in a day than my whole block.
10 cars I couldn’t name. A Lamborghini, a Bentley, something matte black that looked like a tank.
And standing at the door, waiting, was him.
Damien De Luca.
Same black shirt. Same black pants. Same gray eyes that looked right through me.
He looked at my one duffel bag like it offended him. Like poverty was a disease.
“Miss Moretti,” he said. No warmth. No "welcome". “Your room is upstairs. Third door on the left.”
He didn’t move to help me. Didn’t ask about Leo. Didn’t ask if I was hungry.
Just turned and walked inside, expecting me to follow.
My legs moved on their own.
The inside was worse.
Marble floors so shiny I could see my reflection. Chandeliers that cost more than 10 years of my rent. Paintings with gold frames.
And it was empty.
No photos on the walls. No plants. No dog. No TV on.
No life.
Just echoes of footsteps and the sound of my own breathing.
This was what 50 million dollars could buy. And it still felt empty.
A housekeeper, old and silent with her hair in a tight bun, showed me to my room.
White bed. White walls. White carpet. White curtains.
Like a hospital. Like a cage. Like they were trying to erase me.
“Mr. De Luca said dinner is at 9,” she whispered, barely looking at me. “He eats alone.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
The woman just pointed down the hall and left.
Alone.
Right. Rule 2.
I sat on the bed. It was so soft I sank in. I hated that it was comfortable.
At 8:55 I went downstairs. My stomach was in knots.
Damien was already at the table.
20 seats. Dark wood. Candles that weren’t lit.
He sat at the head. One plate. One glass of water. No wine.
He didn’t look up when I sat across from him. 12 chairs between us.
“Eat,” was all he said.
The food was perfect. Steak, medium rare. Roasted vegetables. Bread that was still warm.
I couldn’t taste any of it.
Because every 30 seconds his eyes would flick to me.
Assessing. Cold.
Like he was waiting for me to steal the silverware. Like he was waiting for me to break the contract on day 1 so he could tear it up.
I cut my steak into tiny pieces just to have something to do.
“Leo’s surgery is scheduled for Monday,” I said, just to fill the silence. My voice sounded too loud in the big room. “The hospital called an hour ago. They confirmed the donor arrived.”
Damien cut his steak. The knife made no sound. “I know.”
“That’s it? ‘I know’?”
His knife stopped. He looked up.
For the first time, I saw how tired he was. There were shadows under his eyes that makeup couldn’t hide.
“What do you want me to say, Aria? ‘Congratulations’? ‘I’m so happy for you’?”
He put the knife down. “I paid for it. That’s the end of the transaction.”
The word _transaction_ hit like a slap.
Right. I wasn’t his wife. I was a receipt.
“Right,” I whispered. “Transaction.”
I pushed my plate away. Not hungry anymore. My throat was too tight.
Damien watched me for a second too long. Then he went back to eating.
The silence stretched.
I could hear the clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“You’re allowed to talk,” Damien said suddenly, without looking up. “You’re just not allowed to ask questions.”
“What’s the difference?”
His mouth did that almost-smile again. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ll figure it out.”
We finished in silence.
When I stood, my chair scraped too loud.
Then he stood too. “Be ready at 7AM. City Hall.”
“Do I need to—”
“Just be ready,” he cut me off. Then he left.
No goodnight. No "sleep well".
Just the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
That night I didn’t sleep.
The bed was too big. The room was too quiet. I could hear the house settling.
I kept thinking about Leo. About the eviction notice. About the red ink on the contract.
At 3:17AM, my door opened.
I shot up. Heart pounding so hard I thought it would break my ribs.
Damien stood in the doorway. No light behind him. Just shadow. He hadn’t changed. Still in black.
“Rule 2,” I said, voice shaking. “No touching.”
“I’m not touching you,” he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it all day. Like it hurt.
“Then why are you in my room?”
He stepped inside. Closed the door with a soft click.
“Because the west wing has 14 entry points. Because someone tried to break into the estate last month and shot one of my guards. Because the FBI called me yesterday about a threat on my life.”
He paused.
“Because from now on, you sleep where I can see you.”
My blood ran cold. “What? No. You said separate rooms. That was the deal.”
Damien walked to the window. Looked out at the dark garden. The moon made his profile sharp.
“I changed my mind.”
“That’s not fair. That’s not in the contract.”
He turned. Gray eyes found mine in the dark. And for a second I saw it.
Exhaustion. Grief. Something old and broken.
“Rule 3, Aria. I break the rules.”
I pulled the blanket up to my chin like it would protect me. “I’m not sleeping in the same room as you.”
“Then don’t sleep,” Damien said simply. No anger. No threat. Just fact. “But you’re not leaving this room.”
He walked to the armchair by the window. Sat down. Didn’t take off his jacket.
Didn’t look at me again.
Just... sat. Like a guard. Like a ghost. Like he was punishing himself.
For 3 hours I stared at the ceiling.
Listening to his breathing. Slow. Even.
Listening to the way he didn’t move. Not once.
Broken. Cold.
And somehow, guarding me.
The most dangerous man in the city, and I felt safer with him in the room than I had in 6 days.
At 6AM he stood. “Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”
He left without another word.
And I realized something terrifying:
I wasn’t scared of him anymore.
I was scared of how safe I felt with him in the room.
---
City Hall was gray.
The kind of gray that made everything look dead.
No flowers. No guests. No music. Just a bored clerk, two of Damien’s men by the door, and us.
I wore my only dress. Navy blue. Thrifted. It was 2 sizes too big and I’d safety-pinned the back.
Damien wore black. As always. Black suit, black shirt, black tie.
He looked like he was going to a funeral.
“Do you, Damien De Luca, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife...”
“I do,” he said. No hesitation. No emotion. Like he was ordering coffee.
“Do you, Aria Moretti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband...”
My voice cracked. I could feel his men watching me.
“I do.”
Stamp. Signature. Done.
365 days.
Mrs. De Luca.
Damien didn’t kiss me. Didn’t take my hand. Didn’t even look at me.
He just reached into his suit jacket and handed me a black credit card. No name on it.
“For necessities,” he said. “Food. Clothes for Friday. Don’t abuse it.”
Then he walked out. Like the last 30 seconds meant nothing.
In the car, he finally spoke.
“One event this month. Gala. Friday. Black tie. You’ll need a dress.”
“Okay.”
“And Aria?”
“Yes?”
His eyes were on the road. He didn’t look at me.
“Don’t fall in love with me. It won’t end well for you.”
I nodded. Even though my chest hurt.
Because the man who just married me was warning me against him.
And that was the most honest thing he’d said all day.
Outside the window, Port Harcourt passed by.
And I thought: I sold my next year to a man who doesn’t believe in happy endings.
God help me.
- Writer
