Chapter 6: This is a nightmare!

Roxana

This is a nightmare!

What did he say? Claim me? He’s acting like I’m something to be claimed.

I open my mouth to argue but snap it shut. I know better than to argue with Tristan.

“Don’t punish me, please….” My voice breaks, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears.

“ I will.”

Without waiting for my response, he does something that totally shocks me out of my skin.

Tristan throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries me out of Aaron’s apartment.

Panic creeps in.

What’s he going to do to me?

Not until we get outside do I notice three separate luxurious cars are waiting.

Aaron and his lover are being held ruthlessly by his brothers, pushed into separate cars. Aaron’s mouth is already bloody.

And deep down, it might sound crazy or stupid, but I feel a little tingle of vindication spreading through me, sure they are about to face the worst situation of their lives.

And you too.

A voice in my head whispers, making me flinch because it’s right.

There’s so much fire in Tristan’s eyes that I know something crazy is about to happen to me.

He might even end up killing me.

Tristan throws me into the backseat of a black Ferrari, and I jump into the seat.

“Stay still, dear bride.”

Just a single command, and I’m completely frozen.

I sit like moving could cost me my head and my blood splattered on these expensive leather seats.

It would be a huge mess.

His brothers pull out of the driveway, and Tristan follows.

My lungs lock tight, making breathing ridiculously hard.

I tighten my hand so hard it hurts to keep from shaking.

The engine purrs beneath us as the car slides through the street. No one speaks.

The silence is so thick it presses against my ears. Every turn of the wheel makes my stomach tighten.

My pulse races frantically against my throat, while city lights blur past the tinted windows.

Throughout the nerve-wracking drive, Tristan barely says a word.

He communicates with his eyes and actions, better than with words.

It’s almost as if words are so precious that talking would waste them.

Before I realize it, the three cars are pulling into a huge church. There are many people outside chatting; they all look wealthy and intimidating.

My toes curl; I grip the leather seat until my knuckles turn white.

What’s going on?

Before my mind spirals further into possible outcomes, Tristan opens the back door.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to jump out and run. I can’t even run out of this big gate; I’d likely end up with a bullet in my head or maybe just a leg.

The thought alone makes me shudder.

He holds out a hand, “Let’s go, bride.”

I place my tiny hand in his huge, tattooed one, ignoring the chill that runs down my spine from the contact.

His hand is so big, so rough.

Tristan pulls me out of the car, slams the door, and walks toward the church.

Many eyes turn to look at us.

People whisper among themselves, and some laugh.

Some even dare to speak aloud, though just murmurs.

“Isn’t that Tristan’s bride?”

“Why is she dressed like that? A backpack?”

“She looks like a runaway bride,” says a woman in her mid-thirties, and I glare at her. She flinches.

They keep whispering.

And me? I’m busy running after him with my backpack still on. Ridiculous, right?

It seems Tristan doesn’t notice, or maybe if he does, he considers it background noise.

So where is he taking me? The question hangs at the tip of my tongue, waiting to spill out. But my pounding heart suggests otherwise.

When we enter the church, I drop my jaw in awe. It’s decorated with so many luxurious things.

So many people are seated, dressed in expensive suits and ball gowns.

Everywhere I look, wealth drips from the crowd. Women shimmer under chandeliers, diamonds sparkle on their necks and hands with every move.

Men stand in tailored suits that probably cost more than my annual tuition. Their conversations die as they notice us.

Hundreds of curious eyes lock onto me, making my skin crawl.

Whispers grow louder as Tristan walks through the church, his polished shoes striking the marble floor with slow, confident steps.

Nobody dares block his way.

The crowd parts instinctively, as if he owns the ground beneath their feet.

A man stands at the altar, preaching to the crowd.

A woman with grey hair rushes forward, standing right in front of Tristan, whispering.

“What's going on?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “We are getting married today, that’s what’s happening.”

The woman exclaims, “Oh my God, you… This boy, you want to give me a heart attack? Why is she dressed like that?”

I expect Tristan to give a reasonable explanation, but what he says next makes me wince: “She ran away from me. She actually forgot no one can.”

“She did!” the woman asks, bewildered.

“Yes, mama.”

Mama? Is that his mother?

No wonder he’s so casual with her.

“And you brought her here like this? What exactly are you?”

“I thought it would be late if I decided to take her home first.”

His mother wrinkles her nose. “We need to dress her up for the party; she looks embarrassing.”

Wow.

“Take her to the dressing room. I’ll join you both soon. The guests are anxious.”

I can’t believe this.

Tears gather in my eyes. I can’t believe I’m about to marry this man after everything.

And there’s no way out now. It’s sealed. One way or another, I’ll be dead by the end of today.

Tristan drags me toward what I assume is the dressing room.

Everyone is silent, apart from the exchanging of glances.

Like they’re too scared to talk.

We walk down a long hallway, and finally, he stops in front of a room labeled “Dressing Room,” then enters with me and slams the door shut.

My heart pounds wildly.

I expect to find people dressing, but the room is empty, except for us.

I take a step back, nails digging into my palms so painfully I ache.

What’s he going to do?

We are alone. He could do many terrible things to me.

“W…what are you doing?”

A smirk curls on his lips, cold and deadly, like the devil before a kill.

Or is he about to execute me?

“Are you executing me?”

“You must think I’m some kind of foolish man—kill you on our wedding day? With hundreds of people waiting to see this? Nope. I’m not like that. You’re here to get dressed. You can’t marry in those rags.”

Rags? They cost a lot.

But I keep those thoughts to myself.

Tristan jerks his chin towards a small bed. I set my eyes on the most beautiful wedding dress I’ve ever seen.

My breath catches.

The dress is spread across the bed like liquid moonlight. Tiny crystals are sewn into the bodice, catching the light and scattering it like stars.

Delicate lace trails down the sleeves and brushes the floor.

Beside it are jewelry—diamonds, sapphires—that make my head spin.

Ankle-strap heels lay carefully beside the gown.

I swallow hard.

For a moment, I simply stare.

This dress looks fit for a princess.

I can’t believe these things are for me.

Emotion wells up inside me.

“W-what are those for?” I ask, feeling foolish even as I do.

“They are yours, Roxana. Get dressed; everyone is waiting.”

Why does my name sound like an obituary in his mouth?

I wait for him to leave so I can dress, but he stands still, hands in his suit trousers pockets.

“Y…you need to leave so I can dress.”

Amusement crosses his face, as if I just told the funniest joke.

“No,” he says simply, coldly.

A lump forms in my throat.

No.

I can’t undress in front of him. He can’t see.

He can’t see my scars.

Shame starts to creep up my skin.

My eyes fall on the tiny scar on my wrist; I quickly look away, fingers unconsciously touching it and scratching lightly.

I can’t.

I’m ugly. The scars are long and ugly. No one can see them. He would surely laugh or say something cruel about them.

Tristan senses my hesitation and steps closer. “Strip.”

My brain screams. What’s he going to do when he sees what my body looks like?

Will he throw me out? Will he make others laugh at me?

The room suddenly feels too hot, too small, too suffocating.

My breath shortens as I slowly back into the corner, my back hitting the wall.

Tristan steps toward me slowly, deliberately, as if trying to make me quake.

I begin to shake.

“P…please don’t hurt me,” I whisper.

“W-what are you hiding, dear bride?” his brow raises in suspicion.

“N-no…nothing.”

“You little liar.”

He stands so close I can feel his breath on my forehead, making my neck hairs stand on end.

He slams me against him, bodies pressed hot and close.

God, I forget to breathe.

“The people are waiting. Are you going to keep them waiting longer?”

“I will dress once you leave,” I manage to say.

He slams his hand against the wall above my head, pressing my chest into his hard.

Tristan hesitates, looks down at me, then takes two steps back.

“Undress now, Roxana, or I’ll do it for you.”

My stomach drops.

If he sees the scars, everything will change.

He steps toward me again, muscles flexing under his suit.

His finger trails over my collarbone.

“Now,” he orders.

And I know I have no choice.

Soon, he will see all the secrets I've spent years hiding.