The Taste Of My Vows.

The reception is to be held at one of Nico’s many businesses across town. I wasn’t told which one, just that it was his. Of course it is. Everything today has been about control, about reminders of who now holds the strings. It’s a thirty-minute drive. The door to the sleek black limousine is opened for me before I can even think of objecting. Nico doesn’t say a word, just places a firm hand on the small of my back and guides me inside like I’m something to be loaded, not led. Once I’m seated, he climbs in behind me and shuts the door. Without a glance, he presses a button near the window. The partition between us and the driver slides up with a soft hiss, sealing us off from the outside world. When I look up, he’s already watching me. His body relaxed, legs spread wide as he settles across from me with a gaze that pins me in place. There’s something about the way he sits, like the space belongs to him, like I belong to him.

I fumble with the folds of my dress, smoothing out imagined wrinkles. A distraction. A lifeline. But it doesn’t last. Nico leans forward, the leather groaning beneath him, and grabs my jaw with one large hand. Rough, calloused fingers dig into my skin as he turns my head side to side like he's inspecting merchandise. His eyes are unreadable. Cold. Calculating. “Pretty,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. Not a compliment, an evaluation. Like he's pleased with his purchase.

He lets go, and I instinctively rub at the tender skin he's left behind. My fingers tremble. Before I can fully catch my breath, I hear the unmistakable sound of a belt unbuckling. Clink. I freeze.

“What are you doing?” I manage to whisper, the words barely audible over the sudden rush in my ears. Nico doesn’t answer. He yanks the belt from his pants in one smooth motion, the leather hissing against the fabric before it lands on the floor with a heavy thud. Then the zipper. Then his hand reaching inside, pulling himself free like it’s nothing. Like I’m not sitting three feet away, stunned and spiraling. His voice cuts through the silence like ice. “As my wife, you’ll learn to please me. To obey when I speak. Or there will be consequences.” He says my name, Ava, and it sounds like a sentence. I stare at him. At it. My mouth parts but no sound comes out.

“I…” My throat is dry. My courage, gone.

“On your knees.”

Three words. Quiet. Unyielding. Absolute.

Something in me breaks, and something else rises. Not rebellion. Not defiance. Something colder. Quieter. A terrifying kind of obedience. My body moves without permission, sinking to the floor of the limousine as if responding to gravity itself. The Vera Wang dress pools around me, the silk soft beneath my knees and yet it feels like a shroud. I want to scream no. To tell him I’m not this girl. That I didn’t wait all this time to be turned into a toy. But my voice won’t come. My heart thunders in my chest as his hand curls into my hair, gripping tight.

“Suck.”

The command is sharp, final. He guides me down, and I taste the reality of my vows on my tongue. He groans as I gag, head falling back against the seat, but his grip never loosens. It controls my pace, the pressure, the rhythm. Tears blur my vision. Spit slicks my chin. My throat burns with every thrust. This is not love. This is not intimacy. This is power. This is ownership. This is my husband. And I don’t know who I am anymore.

When he’s finally done using me, he exhales, a satisfied, careless sound, then tucks himself back into his pants like he just completed a meeting or closed a deal. No words. No glance. No regard. I scramble back to my seat, my hands trembling, knees stinging from the friction against silk and leather. My chest rises and falls too fast, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. He pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and tosses it into my lap like a napkin dropped onto a dinner table.

“Clean yourself up,” he mutters. “My wife should not be seen as such a mess.”

My wife. The words land heavier than the act itself. I glance down at the small square of fabric, monogrammed with his initials, of course, and wonder how he expects it to erase the evidence. My lipstick is smeared, tears have carved tracks through my foundation, and I’m sure my hair is falling out of the elegant updo the stylist spent two hours perfecting.

I pat at my face mechanically, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t dare meet his gaze again. I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll see there. Pity? Amusement? Nothing? The silence inside the limousine is suffocating. When the car finally rolls to a stop, the partition glides down and the door is pulled open by one of the staff. Nico steps out without a word, adjusting the cuffs of his suit like he’s preparing for a photo op. He doesn’t offer his hand. He doesn’t look back. He just walks into the building like I don’t exist. I hesitate. A shadow falls across the doorway, and I look up into a face I’ve never seen before. A man, tall and sharp in a dark suit that fits like armor. He wears an earpiece, the faint coil of wire disappearing behind his collar, and there's a sidearm holstered just beneath his jacket. His presence is calm, but not passive, alert in a way that makes me feel strangely...safe. His eyes meet mine, deep blue, startlingly clear, and something flickers in them that I haven’t seen in hours.

Concern.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Moretti?” he asks gently, his voice smooth but steady, like a rope thrown to someone drowning. I open my mouth to answer, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. My lungs tighten, and I feel the sob swelling behind my ribs like a wave waiting to crash. He softens instantly.

“Oh... oh dear. Okay,” he says, his tone dropping to something warm and grounding. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet for a moment, shall we?”

I nod, just once, and rise to follow him, my legs weak, my heart beating too loudly in my ears.

He guides me around the side of the building and through a discreet entrance, not touching me, not rushing me. Inside is a small, windowless room, clearly a security office. Monitors line the walls, each showing grainy footage from various corners of the venue, but the space is dim and cool and, most importantly, empty. He gestures to a narrow door in the corner.

“There’s a bathroom through there. Take your time. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m Hayden,” he says, his voice softer now. “Your personal bodyguard. You can ask me for anything.”

I turn to him, swallowing hard.

“Can I ask you to get me away from here?” I whisper. There’s a pause. The silence stretches too long. Then he sighs, almost like it hurts him.

“Anything… but that. Sorry.”

And the worst part is… I think he actually means it.