The Wedding Night

CATARINA

The reception was a special kind of torture.

Four hours of smiling for photographers, cutting a cake I had no intention of eating, and dancing with a man who held me like I was a business asset he'd just acquired. Which, technically, I was.

The first dance had been particularly excruciating. Jameson's hand on my waist, his other hand holding mine, while hundreds of people watched us sway to some romantic ballad that meant absolutely nothing. He'd looked down at me with those intense green eyes, and I'd looked back with my perfect princess smile, and neither of us had said a single word.

What was there to say?

Thanks for that aggressive kiss at the altar that made me want to stab you?

Lovely weather we're having for our sham marriage?

No. Silence was better.

The jealous women were everywhere. I'd felt their eyes on me all night—sharp, envious glares from every corner of the reception hall. Women in designer dresses who'd probably fantasized about being in my position, about wearing Jameson Connelly's ring, about being the one he'd chosen.

If only they knew the truth.

If only they knew that "chosen" had nothing to do with it.

One woman—a blonde in a red dress that was at least two sizes too small—had actually approached me during the reception. She'd smiled sweetly and told me how "lucky" I was, how "every woman here would kill to be you."

I'd smiled back just as sweetly and said, "Feel free to take my place. I'll even throw in the dress for free."

She'd laughed like I was joking.

I wasn't.

By the time we finally left the reception, I was wound so tight I could barely breathe. The bodice of the dress had been digging into my ribs for hours, the weight of the skirt making every step feel like I was dragging an anchor, and the fake smile I'd been wearing all day had made my face ache.

The car ride back to the Connelly compound was silent.

Completely, utterly, unbearably silent.

I sat on one side of the town car, Jameson sat on the other, and neither of us looked at each other. Neither of us spoke. The driver kept his eyes on the road, and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional passing car.

I didn't know what to say to him.

What was I supposed to say? Thanks for the lovely wedding, husband. Can't wait to spend the rest of my life pretending we don't hate each other?

I could feel the tension radiating off him—could sense his frustration, his anger, his desire to be anywhere but here. And honestly? Same.

When we finally pulled up to the Connelly estate, Jameson was out of the car before it even came to a complete stop.

"Show Mrs. Connelly to her wing," he said curtly to one of the waiting servants, not even looking at me. Then he stalked off toward the east side of the house, his shoulders rigid, his stride purposeful.

Mrs. Connelly.

The name felt foreign. Wrong.

I followed the servant—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a nervous smile—through the massive house. The Connelly estate was even larger than I'd expected, all dark wood and expensive furnishings and the kind of old-money elegance that screamed power.

"This will be your wing, ma'am," the woman said, opening a set of double doors. "Your belongings have already been delivered and unpacked. If you need anything at all, just ring."

She gestured to a small bell on the nightstand, then left me alone.

I stood in the doorway and stared at what was apparently my new bedroom.

It was... a lot.

The room was huge—easily twice the size of my bedroom at the Vitale compound—with floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive four-poster bed draped in white silk, and enough decorative pillows to smother a small army.

And it was pink.

Not aggressively pink, but definitely pink. Soft blush tones on the walls, rose-colored curtains, delicate floral patterns on the bedding. There were lace accents everywhere, frilly throw pillows, a vanity table that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale.

It was the kind of room designed for a princess.

A delicate, feminine, completely useless princess.

I wasn't anti-girly. I could appreciate beauty, elegance, even a touch of femininity when it was done right. But this? This was too much. Too frilly. Too soft. Too... not me.

I preferred natural tones—deep greens, warm browns, subtle grays. Colors that blended into shadows, that didn't draw attention, that let me move unseen.

This room screamed look at me.

And I hated it.

My belongings had been unpacked and arranged throughout the space—my clothes in the walk-in closet, my books on the shelves, my personal items on the dresser. Someone had even hung a few of my favorite pieces of art on the walls, trying to make it feel like home.

It didn't work.

This would never feel like home.

I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror and grimaced. The wedding dress looked even more ridiculous now—wrinkled from hours of wear, the train dragging behind me like a white silk shadow, the bodice still crushing my ribs with every breath.

I needed to get out of this thing.

Now.

I reached behind me, trying to find the zipper, but my fingers couldn't quite reach it. The dress had been designed to require assistance—because of course it had. Because a proper bride would have someone to help her undress. A maid, or a mother, or a...

Husband.

Fuck that.

I twisted and contorted, trying every angle I could think of, but the zipper was just out of reach. My frustration built with each failed attempt, my breathing getting shorter, my chest getting tighter.

I was trapped.

Trapped in this dress, in this room, in this marriage, in this life I'd never wanted.

The panic started to creep in—that claustrophobic feeling of being caged, of having no control, of being completely and utterly helpless.

No.

I wasn't helpless.

I was never helpless.

I hiked up the massive skirt, reaching beneath the layers of silk and tulle until my fingers found the leather strap on my thigh. The blade slid free easily—a small, wickedly sharp knife that I'd carried since I was sixteen.

The weight of it in my hand was instantly calming.

This, I could control.

I grabbed a fistful of the dress's skirt and started cutting.

The fabric tore easily under the blade, silk splitting with a satisfying ripping sound. I slashed through layer after layer of tulle, through the delicate lace trim, through the expensive embroidery that had probably cost more than most people's cars.

I didn't care.

I just needed to be free.

"Fucking... ridiculous... silk and lace... death trap," I muttered, hacking away at the dress with increasing violence. "Who designs a dress you can't get out of by yourself? What kind of sadistic—"

The blade caught on something, and I yanked harder, ripping through another section of fabric.

Better.

I could breathe a little easier now. Could move a little more freely.

I kept cutting, kept tearing, kept destroying the perfect white gown that had made me look like every man's fantasy and feel like a prisoner.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

I'd spent the entire day trapped in something beautiful. Something that looked perfect on the outside but felt like a cage on the inside.

Kind of like this whole fucking marriage.

---

JAMESON

I made it to my wing of the house in record time, loosening my tie as I walked and wanting nothing more than to be alone.

The wedding had been exhausting. The reception even more so. And that car ride back—that silent, tense, unbearable car ride—had pushed me to my limit.

I needed space. Needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now that I was actually married to a woman who clearly despised me.

My bedroom was exactly as I'd left it—dark, masculine, comfortable. No frills, no unnecessary decoration, just clean lines and functional furniture. My sanctuary.

I poured myself a whiskey, downed it in one swallow, then poured another.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

I'd gotten what I wanted—leadership of the family, control of the organization, the power I'd been working toward my entire life. The marriage was just a means to an end. A necessary transaction.

It didn't matter that my wife looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

It didn't matter that she'd whispered don't ever do that again after I'd kissed her at the altar.

It didn't matter that—

A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.

"What?" I barked.

One of the household staff—an older man named Thomas—opened the door cautiously. "Sir, I apologize for disturbing you, but... we heard yelling coming from Mrs. Connelly's wing."

I frowned. "Yelling?"

"Yes, sir. It sounded like... distress. We weren't sure if we should intervene or—"

"I'll handle it," I said, already moving toward the door.

Distress. Great. My wife had been in the house for less than thirty minutes and she was already causing problems.

I stalked through the hallways toward her wing, my irritation building with each step. What could she possibly be yelling about? The room wasn't to her liking? The bed wasn't soft enough? The—

I reached her door and heard it.

Cursing. Loud, creative, extremely vulgar cursing.

And the sound of... ripping fabric?

I didn't bother knocking. Just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

And froze.

Catarina stood in the middle of the room, her back to me, holding a knife in one hand and a fistful of her wedding dress in the other. The dress—that expensive, elaborate, pristine white gown—was in tatters. She'd literally cut it to pieces, shredding the skirt, slashing through the bodice, destroying it with a violence that was almost impressive.

But that wasn't what made me freeze.

It was what I could see now that the dress was torn apart.

Strapped to her thigh was a leather holster. Empty now, since she was holding the knife, but clearly designed to hold a blade. And on her other thigh—another holster. Also empty, which meant she had at least two knives hidden under that dress.

No. Not just two.

As she moved, I caught a glimpse of something else—a thin strap around her upper arm, barely visible against her skin. Another weapon. And was that... yes, there was definitely something strapped to her ankle too.

How many weapons was she carrying?

How many weapons had she been carrying all day?

At our wedding?

My brain struggled to process what I was seeing. This was Catarina Vitale—spoiled princess, socialite, the woman who'd looked bored and useless at our first meeting. The woman I'd assumed would be nothing but a decorative addition to my life.

And she was armed like she was going to war.

She spun around, apparently sensing my presence, and I got a full view of her.

The dress was destroyed—hanging in strips from her shoulders, exposing smooth skin, the curve of her waist, the lean muscle of her thighs. She was still wearing the bodice, barely, and enough fabric to maintain some modesty, but it was clear she'd been in the process of cutting herself completely free.

And she was holding that knife like she knew exactly how to use it.

"Do you not know how to knock?" she snapped, her dark eyes flashing with anger.

I should have responded. Should have said something. But I was too busy trying not to stare at her exposed skin, at the weapons strapped to her body, at the way she held that blade with casual, practiced ease.

Where the hell had those weapons come from?

She'd been searched before the wedding—standard security protocol. I'd made sure of it. So how had she gotten knives past security? How had she hidden them so well that no one noticed?

And more importantly—why did she need them?

"Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to be useful?" she demanded, waving the knife in my general direction.

I forced my eyes up to her face. "You're armed."

"Observant," she said dryly. "Gold star for you."

"You were armed at our wedding."

"Yes, Jameson. I was armed at our wedding. I'm armed everywhere. It's kind of my thing." She gestured impatiently with the knife. "Now, if you're done stating the obvious, I need you to unzip this monstrosity so I can get out of it."

I just stared at her.

She sighed, exasperated. "The zipper. In the back. I can't reach it. So either help me or get the hell out of my room so I can finish cutting myself free from this silk and lace death trap."

Her room. Right. Because this was her wing now. Her space.

My wife's space.

My wife, who apparently carried multiple concealed weapons and knew how to use them.

I should have been angry. Should have demanded answers. Should have asked what the hell she thought she was doing carrying knives to our wedding.

But all I could think about was the way she looked right now—fierce, dangerous, completely in control despite being half-dressed and holding a blade.

She was nothing like what I'd expected.

Nothing at all.

"Well?" she prompted, turning her back to me and lifting what was left of her hair away from her neck. "Are you going to help or not?"

I moved forward before I could think better of it, my hands finding the zipper at the top of her spine.

The bodice was tight—so tight I could see the red marks it had left on her skin. I pulled the zipper down slowly, watching the fabric separate, revealing more smooth skin, more lean muscle, more evidence that Catarina Vitale was not the delicate princess I'd assumed her to be.

"There," I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. "Done."

"Finally," she muttered, shrugging out of the bodice and letting it fall to the floor.

She was wearing something underneath—a thin silk slip that covered her from chest to mid-thigh—but it did nothing to hide the weapons still strapped to her body. Or the fact that she was clearly in excellent physical shape. The kind of shape that came from serious training, not casual gym sessions.

She turned to face me, still holding the knife, her expression challenging.

"You can leave now," she said. "Unless you have more observations to make about my choice of accessories."

I should have left. Should have walked out and given her the space she clearly wanted.

But I couldn't move.

Because I was starting to realize that I'd been completely, utterly, spectacularly wrong about my new wife.

And I had no idea what that meant.