Choreographed Obedience.

I manage to wipe away the smudged remnants of my makeup, my reflection in the bathroom mirror slowly transforming from ruined bride to something more acceptable. More presentable. More his. Thankfully, Hayden had somehow retrieved my clutch from my mother. It must’ve been passed through a quiet chain of hands because I certainly hadn’t seen her, only her expectations sewn into the seams of my dress. Inside the clutch, I find a few essential items: concealer, mascara, a compact. Not nearly enough to erase what just happened, but enough to cover it. I fix my hair, finger-combing it into something elegant again. My updo will never look the same, but it doesn’t have to. It just needs to be convincing. I smooth the silk of my dress, straighten my spine, and press my lips together until they stop trembling. The girl in the mirror looks like a woman now. A perfect wife. A flawless accessory.

I step out of the bathroom and find Hayden standing near the door, arms folded, gaze steady. He’s been guarding the room this entire time like it matters. Like I matter. He finishes murmuring into the mic clipped near his collar, probably reporting my location and then his eyes land on me. There’s a flicker of concern there, quiet and restrained, like he’s trying not to cross a line.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Moretti?” he asks.

My lips part, and I can’t stop the whisper from escaping. “Please… just call me Ava.”

He hesitates, shifting slightly on his feet. “Uh… Mr. Moretti wouldn’t like that.”

I sigh, the weight of the name already heavy on my chest. “Then just when we’re alone?”

A pause. Then he nods. “Okay, Ava.”

The way he says it, like he’s letting me be human again for a moment makes something ache in my chest. But it disappears quickly. His jaw tightens as he taps the mic again. “Mr. Moretti is wanting you inside,” he says, the formality creeping back in. I swallow the bitterness that rises in my throat. The bile of dread and shame and exhaustion, all wrapped into one emotion I don’t have the luxury of naming.

I nod silently. Hayden opens the door, stepping aside with a quiet gesture. I follow him through the hallway and around the building until we reach the grand dining hall. The music inside hums like a storm behind velvet-covered walls. When the doors open, it hits me all at once, the light, the sound, the wealth on display. The dining hall is a glittering spectacle. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen constellations. Champagne flutes clink, laughter rolls in waves, and hundreds of well-dressed strangers swirl through the room like predators in a gilded jungle. I don’t know a single one of them and I don’t want to. In the center of it all stands Nico. My husband. He’s laughing, actually laughing, as he converses with a group of men in sharp suits, each of them older, powerful, exuding that same slick, dangerous charm that says they’ve never been told no in their lives. They don’t even glance at me as I approach. I step quietly to Nico’s side, my heels silent on the polished marble. He doesn’t acknowledge me with a look or a word. Just a hand. Possessive. Casual. It lands on the small of my back, pulling me into him like a final punctuation mark at the end of a sentence I didn’t get to write. I stand there, silent, held in place by his grip, his claim. He doesn’t introduce me. Doesn’t offer me to the group as his wife. I am simply there, worn like a piece of jewelry, shining, silent, owned and I play the part. Because in this world, a woman like me doesn’t speak first. She waits to be told when she can.

At some point, after the champagne has flowed freely and the room hums with idle gossip and thinly veiled power plays, Nico rises to his feet, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise.

“It’s time for dinner,” he announces, and just like that, conversation quiets, glasses still midair, as if his words hold weight over gravity itself. A quiet cue, and suddenly I’m being ushered forward by an older man in a tailored tuxedo I vaguely recognize from earlier. I don’t ask who he is. I don’t ask anything. I’m simply led, like cattle, toward a long, sleek table at the head of the room, stark white against a sea of gold and crimson décor. The chair beside Nico waits for me, too perfectly placed. Too final. I’m all but lowered into it by expectation alone. Nico stands beside me, towering, the embodiment of ease and command. A microphone is pressed into his hand by a server and he taps it twice, the soft static silencing the room with practiced authority. All heads turn. All eyes watch.

“Friends, family,” he begins, his voice smooth, deep, calculated, “thank you for gathering here today to witness the joining of the Moretti and Campelli families. Together, we will achieve great things.”

A simple toast. Simple words. But not about love. Not about us. He raises his glass, and the crowd follows like puppets with strings tied to their wallets. A cheer erupts, but it’s not joy, it’s hunger. The kind of hunger that comes from men who see empires, not emotion. Wealth, not union. They don’t toast me. They toast what my name now buys them. I feel Nico’s eyes on me before I see them. He glances down, one brow arched when he notices my untouched champagne flute still resting on the table, perfectly full. His hand doesn’t move, but his body shifts just enough to lean closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Drink, Ava,” he says low, the command soft but sharp enough to cut.

I force my hand to move, fingers grasping the stem of the crystal glass. I lift it to my lips and drink, the bubbles hissing against my tongue, my smile wide and fake enough to rival the diamonds around my neck. Good girl. Good wife. Dinner is served like clockwork, elegant, expensive, tasteless. I push the food around my plate, answering empty pleasantries with hollow nods. Nico says little to me, though his hand stays possessively close, occasionally grazing my arm or resting against the back of my chair in quiet warning. When the plates are finally cleared, the next charade begins. Rows and rows of guests approach us like pilgrims offering tribute to a false god. They hand over designer boxes, handwritten envelopes sealed with wax, and cloying words of congratulations that mean nothing and land even less. Each smile is practiced. Each hug a performance. Each blessing laced with expectation. I sit there, nodding, thanking them, forgetting names before they finish saying them. Nico accepts it all with a quiet nod and a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes, as though he's already tallying what he's gained tonight.

And then, without warning, he stands again and turns to me, offering his hand.

“It is time for our first dance, wife,” he says.

The word lands heavy between us. Wife. I stare at his outstretched hand, hesitation flickering like a live wire under my skin. Every nerve screams don’t go. Don’t touch him. Don’t perform for them again. But all I do is swallow and rise. Because that’s what’s expected. That’s what a Moretti wife does. She dances. Even if her soul is still bleeding.