Chapter 3 — The Tense Wedding
Bella
Bella stood in the center of her childhood bedroom, staring at her reflection in the tall antique mirror that leaned precariously against the wall. The room, once a haven of soft pastels and floral prints, now felt like a mausoleum of lost innocence. The peeling wallpaper, with its faded vines and blossoms, seemed to mock her, while the faint scent of lavender from an old sachet in the corner clung stubbornly to the air, a ghost of comfort long gone. She smoothed the delicate lace of her wedding dress, her fingers trembling as they traced the intricate floral patterns stitched into the fabric. *A cruel irony,* she thought, *that something so beautiful could feel so suffocating.*
The dress had been chosen for her. Just like the venue. Just like the groom.
Her chestnut brown hair cascaded in loose waves over her shoulders, framing a face that looked foreign even to herself. She caught her green eyes in the mirror—once vibrant, brimming with warmth and determination, they now flickered with a storm of anger, fear, and defiance. She inhaled deeply, her grandmother’s voice whispering through her mind: *Strength is not the absence of fear but the will to act despite it.* Bella didn’t feel strong, but she would fake it until she did.
Her gaze fell to the bouquet of white roses and lavender resting on the edge of her dresser. She had arranged it herself, spending hours the previous evening selecting each bloom with meticulous care. It had been her only demand, her sole act of defiance in a day otherwise dictated by others. The flowers were a quiet rebellion, their fragile petals a stark contrast to the weight of the chains binding her.
A sharp knock at the door shattered her reverie. Alessandro entered without waiting for permission, his presence as unwelcome as it was inevitable. His silver-streaked hair was perfectly combed, his dark eyes gleaming with calculation beneath a thin veneer of fatherly concern. As he adjusted the cufflinks on his tailored suit, his movements deliberate and practiced, Bella was struck by how seamlessly charm and control intertwined in him.
“Bella, it’s time,” he said, his voice a smooth blend of command and reassurance, as if those two things could ever coexist in truth.
She turned to face him, her face a mask of calm. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her. Though his expression remained neutral, Bella couldn’t shake the feeling of being appraised, measured, and found lacking in ways she would never fully understand. “You look... perfect. Remember, this is for the family. For your mother. Your siblings. You understand that, don’t you?”
Her jaw tightened. “I understand,” she said, her voice steady but edged with ice. Her green eyes burned with fury, their intensity sharp enough to cut.
Alessandro extended his arm, but Bella brushed past him without a word, clutching her bouquet in both hands. Each flower was a reminder of her grandmother’s resilience, a whisper of beauty she refused to let this day steal from her. Alessandro’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he followed, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor.
*
The Velvet Rose loomed before her, a cathedral of shadows and ambition. Its red-hued lighting cast an otherworldly glow over the polished floors and velvet furnishings, the air thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and faint cigar smoke. Conversations hummed in low, conspiratorial tones, punctuated by the occasional clink of crystal glasses. Bella felt their eyes on her—guests seated at tables draped in black and gold, their faces partially obscured by the dim light. They watched her as though she were an exotic curiosity, a pawn in a game they all understood better than she did.
The floral arrangements she had labored over stood in defiant contrast to the room’s dark ambiance. Cascading garlands of hydrangeas and roses adorned the tables, their soft hues of blush and cream a fragile beauty amidst the opulence. Bella’s heart twisted as she passed them, grounding herself in their delicate perfection. *If nothing else, this is mine,* she thought.
And then she saw him.
Dante Russo stood at the far end of the room, his tall, imposing figure framed by the glow of a cascading chandelier. He was a portrait of cold precision, his jet-black hair neatly combed, his tailored suit an armor of authority. His steel-gray eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the air seemed to still. His expression betrayed nothing—no joy, no reluctance, no curiosity. Just a calculating calm that sent a chill down her spine.
Bella’s steps faltered, but Alessandro’s hand pressed firmly against her back, propelling her forward. “Remember what I said,” he murmured, his tone low but insistent.
She didn’t respond. Her focus remained fixed on Dante, her pulse quickening with each step. The click of her heels against the polished floor echoed in her ears, a countdown to her undoing.
The ceremony unfolded like a fever dream. The officiant’s voice droned on, the words muffled and hollow. Bella’s grip on her bouquet tightened, the stems digging into her palms. She glanced at the guests—shadowed figures seated in neat rows, their expressions unreadable, their murmurs a backdrop to her isolation. She was alone in this room, a performer on a stage not of her choosing.
Her gaze met Dante’s as they exchanged vows. His voice was steady, his words clipped and devoid of emotion, but his eyes lingered on hers for a fraction longer than necessary. It was fleeting, but enough to unsettle her. When it was her turn, she forced herself to speak, each word feeling like a betrayal of the life she had envisioned for herself.
The ring—a simple band of platinum—slid onto her finger with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine. Dante’s touch was warm, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment before retreating. She hated that her skin remembered the sensation.
As the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, polite applause rippled through the room, as lifeless as the ceremony itself. Dante extended his arm to her, and she hesitated before resting her hand on it. His grip was firm, his silence louder than the applause.
As they turned to face the room, he leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. “You’ve done well to keep your composure. Let’s see if you can keep it longer than most.”
Bella’s jaw tightened, her green eyes flashing. “Composure is the least of your concerns,” she murmured, her voice like tempered steel.
His lips curved into a faint shadow of a smile, more acknowledgment than amusement. But he said nothing further.
*
The car ride to Dante’s estate was suffocatingly silent. Bella stared out the window, tracing patterns on the cold glass with her fingertips. The city blurred past—neon lights reflected in puddles, shadows stretching long in the dim glow of streetlamps. Beside her, Dante sat like a storm contained, his presence a force of gravity that pulled her thoughts into orbit despite her resistance.
“You could have said something back there,” she said abruptly, her voice cutting through the silence.
Dante turned his head slightly, his steel-gray eyes meeting hers. “And what should I have said?”
“Anything,” she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “A word of acknowledgment, a gesture. Something to make it less... transactional.”
He studied her, his expression unreadable. “Would you have preferred a lie? A declaration of love to appease the audience?”
Bella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No. But silence speaks volumes too.”
Dante leaned back, his gaze returning to the window. “Silence is often more honest than words.”
The car slowed as they approached the estate, its wrought iron gates creaking open to reveal a sprawling mansion bathed in cold moonlight. The building rose before her, its sharp angles and towering windows a fortress of sterility. Bella felt the weight of it settle on her chest, heavy and suffocating.
As the car came to a stop, Dante stepped out first, extending a hand to her. She hesitated, then took it, her pride forcing her to meet his gaze with unwavering resolve.
“Welcome to your new home,” he said, his tone as devoid of warmth as the mansion itself.
Bella released his hand and stepped forward, her eyes scanning the cold facade. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice laced with just enough sarcasm to cut.
Dante’s lips twitched, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his features. “You’ll find it’s not so different from the life you’ve left behind.”
Bella turned to him sharply, her chin lifting. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Dante’s expression hardened, the flicker of amusement extinguished. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the entrance, leaving her to follow.
As the heavy doors of the mansion closed behind her, Bella felt the enormity of her new reality settle onto her shoulders. The air inside was cold, sterile, and oppressive, devoid of the warmth and chaos she had once called home. But beneath her fear and anger, a spark of determination flickered.
She might be a pawn in this game, but she would find a way to rewrite the rules.
She had to.
