CHAPTER FIVE: Punishment

My heart pounded as I felt the weight of Marco’s gaze settle on me. 

I had messed up, not just once, but twice, two rules broken in a single day.

I knew exactly what was coming, I couldn’t stop the tremble in my hands or the tight knot of dread and anticipation twisting in my stomach. 

He stood in front of me, looking calm, collected, and deadly. His eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them. 

Without saying a word, he bent and raised the knife he had in his hands.  

He held it up, casually pointing it at me like it was an extension of his hand, a silent warning. Stay still and I did.

I lay there, breath shallow, frozen in place, completely at his mercy. 

I hated this feeling of helplessness, the loss of control, but part of me… a part I didn’t want to acknowledge, burned under his stare. 

I hated it, hated that I wanted more than just forgiveness.

He climbed the bed and pulled me closer to himself, his hand moving to my skirt, he lifted it slowly, his touch deliberate, calculated.

Then he flipped me to my back and the first slap landed, it was sharp and direct. Pain bloomed instantly on my skin.

I gasped, more out of shock than pain, but then he hit me again, and again. 

Each slap made my body jerk, each one timed like a statement: This is what happens when you disobey me.

I bit down on my lip to stifle the sounds, but I couldn’t stop them. 

My body reacted before my mind caught up. The pain stung, but so did the pleasure curling beneath it. 

I hated that I felt it, hated even more that I didn’t want it to stop.

“Do you understand now?” he said, his palm landing again, harder this time.

“Yes,” I breathed, voice shaking.

“You sure?” He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “Because next time, it won’t stop here.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

He pulled his hand away. My body trembled, throbbing from the pain and heat he left behind. I expected him to walk away, but he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers slid between my thighs, slow and intentional. I jolted at the touch, but he didn’t stop.

His fingers move in small, torturous circles, teasing my clit with an infuriating slowness. I moaned, softly at first, then louder as he pressed harder. 

My body betrayed me completely, hips shifting toward his touch.

“You’re dripping, wife,” he murmured against my neck. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer, I wasn't going to admit it, not out loud.

But my body did the talking.

He kept going, faster now, building the tension until I was right there, right on the edge, then he stopped.

I cried out, frustrated, needy, breathless.

But he was already moving away, that damn smirk back on his face.

He stood, adjusted his sleeves, and looked down at me like I was a lesson he had just finished teaching.

“Next time,” he said simply, “think twice before breaking my rules.”

And then he turned and walked out, leaving me lying there on the bed, throbbing, panting, and humiliated.

I had to admit, he had power over me and he could punish me and still make my body crave his touch. I knew I’d feel it again.

And part of me… wanted to.

A soft knock stirred me from a restless sleep.

I blinked at the sunlight streaming through the curtains, momentarily unsure where. I hadn’t even realized when I’d finally drifted off.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

I sat up, slowly dragging the blanket tighter around my body as the door creaked open.

Three women entered, all dressed in black with sleek ponytails and professional faces. 

Each carried something, one with a garment bag, another with a case of makeup, and the last with a box that looked like it held jewelry.

“Good morning,” the one with the bag said politely. “We’re here to prepare you.”

I stared at them, confused. “Prepare me for what?”

“For your wedding,” she said with a small smile. “Mr. Martini sent us.”

My stomach flipped, I had almost forgotten. Today was the day.

I didn’t move.

“Please,” another woman said gently, “We’re on a tight schedule. We’ll help you bathe, then get you into your dress.”

I didn’t argue, I just stood slowly and let the blanket fall. I let them wash me like I was some broken doll—turning when told, lifting my arms when asked. 

When I stepped out of the tub, they wrapped me in soft towels and began drying my hair while another rubbed lotion into my skin.

Then came the clothes, they hung three dresses across the room, each stunning, each more over the top than the last. 

One was white satin, fitted and sleek, the second had lace and a dramatic train that trailed like smoke. 

But the one they chose for me was the third, a strapless corset gown in ivory with pearls sewn along the bodice and tulle that flowed like water around my feet.

They laced me in tight, until it hurt to breathe, then sat me in front of a mirror to start on my makeup. My reflection didn’t look like me.

My lips were painted a soft rose, my cheeks glowing, my hair curled and pinned with tiny silver flowers. 

I looked like a bride, but inside, I felt like a prisoner wrapped in silk.

“Mr. Martini will be expecting you downstairs in an hour,” the last woman said as she placed the final necklace around my neck, a delicate diamond choker that matched the ring I hadn’t realized I was already wearing.

The moment they left, the silence settled in again. I stood by the mirror, staring at the stranger in front of me, wondering if I’d make it through today without shattering. 

Wondering what kind of life waited for me after I said, “I do” to a man like Marco Martini. Wondering if I had a choice at all.

But the door would open soon, and when it did, I’d have to walk into a new life, whether I was ready or not.