Phoebe
The dress is a lie.
It is made of ivory silk and Italian lace, a confection of innocence I have never owned. It weighs a ton, each pearl and crystal sewn into the bodice a tiny anchor pulling me down. They think this veil hides a blushing bride. It hides a soldier preparing for a new kind of war.
My reflection in the gilt mirror is a stranger. A pale, perfect doll crafted for sacrifice. Her eyes, though. Her eyes are mine. They are not soft or demure. They are hard chips of obsidian.
The door opens without a knock.
“It’s time,” Marco says. He fills the doorway, his tuxedo straining at the shoulders. He looks me up and down, a slow, appraising glance, like a butcher inspecting a cut of meat.
“Don’t you look pretty,” he says, a sneer playing on his lips. “A perfect little lamb for the slaughter.”
I say nothing. I adjust the diamond earring that once belonged to our mother. He hates it when I wear her things.
“Don’t trip on your way down the aisle, little sister.” He steps into the room, the scent of his cheap ambition filling the space. “And remember your place. Isaac Lorne is your husband now. Your Don.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I am aware of the terms of my sale, Marco.”
His face flushes. “You are ungrateful. I am saving this family.”
“You are saving yourself,” I correct him, my voice a silken thread. “And you used me to do it.”
He takes another step closer, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. For a moment, I think he might actually hit me. Part of me wishes he would try.
But he is a coward. He always has been.
He stops, forcing a laugh that sounds like grinding glass. He straightens his bow tie, his composure a fragile mask.
“Just be a good little wife,” he finally says, the words dripping with poison. “Make the Sterling name useful for once.”
He turns and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and I am alone with the stranger in the mirror again. A good little wife. The words echo in the silent room. A promise of obedience. A vow of submission.
I pick up my bouquet of white roses. The thorns have been carefully removed. A shame.
I could have used them.
The church is cavernous and cold. Hundreds of faces turn to watch me as I walk the long aisle on Uncle Matteo’s arm. Half of these faces belong to my family, their expressions a mixture of pity and relief. The other half belong to the Lornes. Their stares are not pitiful. They are knives. They see a Sterling. They see the enemy.
I keep my eyes forward. At the end of the aisle, Isaac Lorne is waiting. He stands perfectly still, a statue carved from shadows and steel. His black tuxedo is a stark contrast to the white marble of the altar. He watches my approach, his face an unreadable mask. There is no warmth in his eyes. Only assessment. He is calculating my worth, my threat level.
Uncle Matteo’s hand tightens on my arm. “Be strong, little one,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sorrow I cannot afford to feel.
He places my hand in Isaac’s. His skin is cold, or maybe it’s just that mine is burning. His grip is firm, possessive. It is not the touch of a groom. It is the touch of a man taking ownership of a new acquisition.
We turn to face the priest. The ceremony is a blur of ancient words and hollow promises. To love. To honor. To obey.
When I say “I do,” the words taste like ash in my mouth. My voice does not tremble. It is clear and steady. A declaration of war, not of love.
Isaac’s “I do” is a low, rumbling sound that seems to shake the very foundations of the church. A promise of dominion.
He slides a heavy platinum band onto my finger. It feels like a shackle.
The priest says, “You may kiss the bride.”
The world holds its breath. Isaac turns to me. His eyes are dark, bottomless pits. He lifts my veil with a slow, deliberate motion. For a second, I see that same flicker I saw at the funeral. Not hatred. Curiosity. The look of a scientist examining a strange, potentially dangerous new specimen.
He leans in. His lips are cold and firm against mine. The kiss is brief, brutal, and utterly devoid of passion. It is a seal on a contract. A branding.
The crowd erupts into applause. A celebration of a peace no one in this room believes will last.
The reception is held in a grand ballroom dripping with crystals and resentment. Every smile is a lie. Every toast is a threat. I stand at Isaac’s side, a perfect statue of a wife, as a parade of Lorne capos and soldiers offer their congratulations.
“A beautiful bride, Don Lorne,” one says, his eyes lingering on me with open hostility. “May she be loyal.”
“Welcome to the family,” another murmurs, his tone suggesting he would rather welcome a plague.
I smile until my face aches. I nod and accept their false pleasantries. Isaac is a wall of cold indifference beside me. He accepts their fealty with a slight dip of his head, his hand never leaving the small of my back. A constant, heavy pressure reminding me of my place. I am his. I am Lorne property.
Later, I find a moment of quiet near the towering wedding cake, a monstrosity of white frosting and sugar flowers.
“Enjoying the party, Mrs. Lorne?”
I turn. It is Leo, Isaac’s consigliere. The man who is never far from his Don’s side. His face is lean and sharp, his eyes intelligent.
“It’s quite the spectacle,” I say, my voice neutral.
“A necessary one,” he replies smoothly. “Appearances are everything.”
“Indeed.” I meet his gaze. He is studying me, just as his boss did. Trying to see the cracks in my performance.
“My brother sends his regards,” I say, a small, calculated test. “He hopes this union will be fruitful.”
Leo’s expression does not change, but I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Contempt. He knows exactly what Marco is.
“Peace is always fruitful,” he says, the perfect diplomatic answer. He gives a small bow of his head and disappears back into the crowd.
He thinks I am a fool. They all do.
The orchestra begins to play a slow, languid waltz. The floor clears. It is time.
Isaac appears at my elbow as if summoned from the shadows.
“My dear,” he says, his voice a low drawl meant for the ears of those around us. He holds out his hand.
I place my fingers in his. His grip tightens, pulling me toward the center of the polished marble floor.
He pulls me into his arms. One hand finds the small of my back again, pressing me against him. His other hand envelops mine. We are closer now than we were at the altar. I can smell his cologne, something clean and sharp like gin and winter air. I can feel the warmth of his body, the hard muscle beneath the fine wool of his jacket.
We begin to move. The music swells around us, a beautiful, tragic melody for a beautiful, tragic lie.
We do not speak. There are no words for what exists between us.
This is not a dance. It is a negotiation. A battle.
He leads with brutal, unforgiving precision. Every turn is a statement of control. Every step is an assertion of power. He is testing my balance, my resolve. He expects me to stumble. To falter.
I do not.
I match him move for move. I follow his lead, but I am not pliant. I am not a rag doll in his arms. My frame is light, but my posture is rigid. My hand on his shoulder is not a lover’s caress. My fingers press against the muscle there, a subtle reminder that I am not breakable.
Our eyes lock. The noise of the party, the music, the world, it all fades away. There is only the silent war being waged in the space between us.
His eyes are a storm. They tell me I am a prisoner in his house, a Sterling snake he will not trust. They promise surveillance. They promise that if I make one wrong move, he will crush me without a second thought.
My gaze answers him. It tells him he may have bought a bride, but he has not bought my loyalty. It tells him I am not a frightened girl, but the daughter of Enzo Sterling. It tells him that he may be the king of his castle, but a queen can be just as deadly.
He spins me, his hand tightening on my waist until I can barely breathe. A punishment for my defiance. I do not gasp. I do not look away. I hold his gaze, my chin held high.
I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He expected fear. He did not get it.
For a moment, just a single, fleeting moment, the surprise is replaced by something else. A reluctant sliver of respect. Or perhaps, just curiosity.
The music begins to fade, the final notes hanging in the tense air between us.
We slow to a stop in the center of the floor. For a beat, we remain locked in our embrace, the silent battle raging on.
He is the first to break contact. He releases me, stepping back. The space between us feels like a chasm.
He bows his head, a gesture of perfect, cold chivalry for the watching crowd.
I curtsy, my movements fluid and graceful. A perfect imitation of a dutiful wife.
The applause is thunderous.
No one saw the fight. They only saw the dance.
He turns without another word and walks away, swallowed by the crowd of his men.
I am left alone in the center of the room, the heat of his hand still burning on my skin. The war is not over.
It has just begun.
