Chapter 3 — The Wedding

Third Person

The heavy oak doors of Villa Moretti’s grand hall creaked open, revealing a sea of faces cloaked in masks of false smiles and whispered judgments. The air, thick with the scent of roses mingling with the faint tang of wine, carried an undercurrent of tension that coiled through the room like smoke. Bella stepped into the threshold, her slender frame draped in an ivory gown that shimmered like liquid moonlight beneath the dim, golden glow of the chandeliers. The delicate lace hugged her shoulders and cascaded into intricate patterns—a testament to her own creative genius. Yet, the gown now felt like a betrayal of herself, a masterpiece turned into a cage.

White peonies trembled in her grip, their soft petals a cruel contrast to the iron will that kept her standing. Her knuckles were pale against the vibrant green stems, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. She scanned the room, her dark eyes alive with a defiant fire, searching for any escape in a place designed to hold her captive. The guests—family, allies, enemies—watched her with rapt attention, their murmurs a symphony of speculation. Each gaze felt like a weight pressing down on her, binding her to this moment, this path she had not chosen.

At the far end of the aisle, Adrian De Luca waited. Framed by the ornate altar, he stood like a sentinel, his tall, commanding figure encased in a tailored black suit that seemed to devour the light. His piercing gray eyes locked onto hers, their intensity slicing through the distance between them. For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to dissolve, leaving only the suffocating pull of his presence. He didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch. His stillness was unnerving, a silent force that demanded acknowledgment. Bella’s grip on the bouquet tightened, and a surge of defiance rose within her. If he thought she would crumble beneath his gaze, he was sorely mistaken.

Giovanni Moretti appeared at her side, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning the room before settling on her. His weathered face, a mask of composure, betrayed nothing of the man who had orchestrated her betrayal. Like a chess master executing his final move, he extended his arm toward her, his expression unreadable. Bella hesitated. Her every instinct screamed for her to bolt, to shatter the fragile façade that had been so meticulously constructed. But the eyes of the room pinned her in place, and the stakes—family, survival, pride—were too high to risk. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she placed her trembling hand into the crook of her father’s arm. Her touch was cold, like the steel of the ceremonial dagger gleaming ominously on the altar behind Adrian.

“Smile, Bella,” Giovanni murmured, his voice carrying the weight of command laced with barely veiled menace. “The world is watching. This is your moment to shine—for the family.”

“For you,” Bella thought bitterly, but she pressed her lips into a defiant line. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of compliance, even in the smallest gesture.

They began their slow march down the aisle, each step a betrayal of the life Bella had painstakingly built for herself. The echoes of her heels against the marble floor reverberated like a dirge, marking the death of her independence. The weight of her gown pulled at her shoulders, its beauty mocking her resolve. Her gaze flicked to Adrian as she approached. She searched for a crack in his icy façade, some hint of the man beneath the mask. But his expression remained impenetrable, and the wall between them loomed as solid as ever.

When they reached the altar, Giovanni placed Bella’s hand in Adrian’s. The contact was electric, charged not with passion but with the stark reality of their predicament. Adrian’s grip was firm, his palm cool and steady against her trembling fingers. Bella’s breath hitched—a sharp intake she couldn’t quite suppress. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met, and she saw something there—a flicker of hesitation, or perhaps recognition. But the moment dissolved as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the unyielding steel of his gaze.

The officiant began to speak, his voice a solemn monotone that seemed to blur into the background, lost beneath the oppressive weight of the room. Bella barely registered the words. Her mind buzzed with fragmented thoughts, each more chaotic than the last. She felt Adrian’s thumb graze against her wrist—a subtle, almost absent gesture. Her eyes darted to him, her heartbeat faltering. Had he noticed the scar beneath his touch, the faint line that told a story no one had ever asked to hear? If he had, his face betrayed nothing. He remained an enigma, as cold and calculated as the world he represented.

The vows came next. Bella’s voice, though steady, carried an unmistakable edge of defiance as she forced the words past her lips. Each syllable was a stone lodged in her throat, but she refused to falter. Adrian’s voice followed, calm and deliberate, his tone that of a man fulfilling a duty. Yet there was an undercurrent to his words—a rawness so fleeting she almost doubted it was there. It unsettled her more than his coldness ever could.

The exchange of rings followed. The gold band slid onto Bella’s finger with an almost audible finality, its weight heavier than she had anticipated. Adrian’s hand lingered on hers for a moment too long, his touch as steady as his gaze. Bella fought the urge to pull away, knowing that to flinch now would be to concede defeat. When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the applause that erupted was hollow in her ears. Adrian turned to her, his movements precise and deliberate, and bent his head toward hers.

The world narrowed to the space between them, the charged air crackling with unspoken words and suppressed emotions. His lips brushed against her cheek in a calculated gesture, cool and impersonal. It wasn’t intimacy—it was possession, a claim staked before an audience that hungered for spectacle. The murmurs of approval rippling through the crowd only deepened Bella’s sense of entrapment.

The reception unfolded as a grotesque masquerade, a blur of strained smiles and veiled threats. Bella moved through the room like a ghost, her mind ablaze with anger and helplessness. She caught snippets of conversation—whispers of alliances, murmurs of betrayal. Rivals and allies mingled, their interactions charged with unspoken tensions. At one point, she overheard a hushed exchange between two men, their words laced with veiled threats directed at Adrian. Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to keep moving, her mask firmly in place.

Adrian was never far from her side, his presence a constant, oppressive reminder of her new reality. He spoke sparingly but observed everything, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the precision of a predator. The weight of his attention, even when indirect, was suffocating. And yet, there was something in the way he carried himself—an unspoken assurance, a sense of control—that both unnerved and intrigued her.

As the evening waned, Bella found herself standing beside Adrian at the edge of the grand hall. Their hands were clasped together for the benefit of the remaining guests, her fingers cold and unyielding in his. Her face ached from the effort of maintaining her mask, and her heart burned with the desire to shatter the illusion once and for all.

When the last of the guests departed, Adrian released her hand and turned to face her fully. The silence that filled the room was heavy, oppressive, pressing down on them like a tangible force. For the first time that day, Bella allowed herself to meet his gaze without flinching.

“You’ve made your move,” she said, her voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade. “But don’t mistake this for victory.”

Adrian’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “This isn’t a game, Isabella,” he replied, his tone as deliberate and unyielding as ever. “It’s survival—for both of us.”

Her name on his lips sent a shiver through her, though she refused to let it show. With a sharp inhale, she turned on her heel and walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a shadow. Adrian watched her go, his expression unreadable, his thoughts a mystery she had no desire to unravel.

As Bella disappeared into the winding halls of Villa Moretti, Adrian’s gaze lingered on the faint indentation her fingers had left on his palm. The scar bracelet on her wrist had caught his eye once more, its delicate charm gleaming in the dim light. He wondered, briefly, about the story behind it, the pain it concealed. But he pushed the thought aside, burying it beneath the layers of control and calculation that defined him.

For now, the battle—whether he admitted it or not—had only just begun.