CHAPTER TWO

Zara’s POV

The first thing to hit the floor was a crystal perfume bottle.

It shattered against the marble like her chest had cracked open.

I grabbed the next thing — a velvet box holding my mother’s diamond earrings — and threw it at the mirror. The glass split, the shards raining down like the last ounce of my patience.

“How can he do this to me?” I screamed, spinning like a storm through the room. “How dare he?”

The mirror cracked under the weight of my rage. I didn’t even feel the pain until I saw the blood trailing down my wrist, a red slash across pale skin.

I welcomed it.

That was the only real thing I could feel.

The rest? A joke. A betrayal. A farce of a life I never asked for but was expected to rule like royalty.

“My lady… the dress…” one of the maids stammered from the corner, holding the ivory silk like it was sacred.

I turned slowly, eyes burning holes into her trembling hands. “If you don’t want your fingers ripped off, put it down.”

She dropped it instantly. Good.

I walked over, picked up the wedding dress, and dragged it across the floor like roadkill. It was perfect — too perfect. Lace and pearls and everything a good little mafia princess should wear.

But I was never good.

I was Zara Moretti.

And I wasn’t marrying anyone. Not willingly.

I tore the silk straight down the middle, let the beads scatter like broken promises. When I was done, I grabbed a black dress from my closet. It was sleek, skin-tight, and cut high up one thigh like a weapon. Sheer gloves. Blood-red lipstick. Dark veil. I didn’t look like a bride. I looked like a threat.

I was exactly what I needed to be.

I thought back to last night — to the way my father barely glanced at me when he handed me over like property.

“You’re getting married tomorrow. My word is final.”

“What if I refuse?” I had shouted.

“Then Lucien will marry your corpse.”

Simple. Brutal. Enzo Moretti’s style.

I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, hatred bubbling beneath my skin. And now, as I stood there getting dressed for my own funeral, I made a vow of my own:

He will regret ever crossing me.

Lucien Cortez will wish he was never born.

⸻

LUCIEN’S POV

I sat at the front of the church, tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks gleaming, heart cold as steel.

The air buzzed with murmurs.

She was late.

Of course, she was.

I should’ve expected it. The infamous Zara Moretti, known for crashing underground auctions, threatening politicians, and setting a rival’s mansion on fire just for fun. Now she was my bride. My punishment.

This wasn’t a union. It was war wrapped in lace and forged by blood deals.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

Vanessa had cried all night. I held her, whispered empty words I didn’t even believe. “It won’t last.”

“You’re the one I love.”

She begged me not to go through with it. I told her I had no choice.

Then, this morning… she surprised me.

Walked into my closet in red lace. No shame. No tears.

She looked me in the eye and whispered, “Let me ruin you before she does.”

And I let her.

Up against the wall, her breath shaky and fast. Her legs wrapped around me, her nails dug into my back like she was trying to mark her territory. Her kiss was wild. Scared. Full of goodbye.

And yet…

My mind kept drifting.

To the woman I was about to marry.

The one they said had eyes like sin and a heart like fire.

Zara.

The doors creaked open, and the room fell into silence.

And then she appeared.

I’d seen photographs — but nothing prepared me for this.

She didn’t walk down the aisle. She owned it. Owned the silence. Owned the gasps.

A black veil covered her face, but I could still see the curve of her jaw, the smirk tugging at her lips, the gleam in her dangerous eyes. Her gown was more like a funeral dress — hugging every curve with unapologetic sex appeal.

Not a bride.

A black widow.

And somehow… I was both furious and intrigued.

⸻

ZARA’S POV

All eyes were on me.

Good.

They could choke on their traditions. I was the villain in their fairytale. The dark stain on their perfect wedding fantasy. I wasn’t here to be loved. I was here to remind them all that no one controlled Zara Moretti — not even blood.

Especially not blood.

My father’s face was stone, but his jaw was tight. He hated this. Hated that I refused to conform. Hated that I was still winning — even in chains.

But then I saw him.

Lucien Cortez.

And dammit, he was beautiful.

I hated it instantly.

He was tall, with dark hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of a painting. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Eyes like cold steel that didn’t flinch when they met mine. He looked exactly like the kind of man who thought he was untouchable.

And yet… something about him wasn’t just cold. It was dangerous.

Not in the way most men tried to be.

No, he was real.

I stopped at the altar, black veil fluttering in the air. He didn’t offer his hand. Didn’t even pretend to smile.

I liked that.

The priest stammered a welcome. My father grunted. Lucien stood perfectly still.

“So,” I whispered, only for him. “You’re the poor bastard they chose to tame me?”

“I don’t do taming,” he replied flatly. “I break what needs breaking.”

God.

I smiled under my veil.

Let the games begin.

⸻

LUCIEN’S POV

The priest asked if I took her to be my wife.

“I do,” I said. Like a gunshot.

When it was her turn, she paused. Smiled.

“I do… regret not poisoning the cake.”

The audience chuckled nervously. My father looked like he was about to pass out. Don Enzo glared at her with murder in his eyes.

I kept mine on her.

The ceremony finished without a kiss. There was no need. Everyone knew this wasn’t love.

This was survival.

At the reception, I barely touched my drink. Vanessa hadn’t spoken to me since arriving, but I felt her rage all the way from the back of the room.

Zara danced alone, swirling her black dress like a storm. She didn’t try to fit in. She didn’t even try to pretend.

I hated how much I noticed her.

The way her lips curved around a champagne glass.

The way her laugh sliced through the air like a weapon.

She was chaos in heels.

And she was mine now.

⸻

ZARA’S POV

He didn’t touch me.

Not during the vows. Not during the reception. Not even in the car on the way to his mansion.

Good.

I didn’t want tenderness. I didn’t want fake romance.

I wanted space to burn.

The car was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

He sat stiffly beside me, hands in his lap, eyes staring straight ahead. He didn’t speak once. Just clenched his jaw so hard I could hear it clicking.

When we arrived at the Cortez estate, I was escorted in like an uninvited guest.

“The maid will show you to your room,” he said curtly.

I turned, raised an eyebrow. “Not even a wedding night kiss?”

He didn’t answer.

“Won’t you fuck your wife?” I teased.

Still nothing.

His control was maddening.

But that’s okay.

He’d break.

Eventually.

⸻

Lucien’s POV

The silence in the car was thick—until I broke it.

“If you’re going to live under my roof,” I said, voice cold, “there are rules.”

She turned to me slowly, one brow arched beneath her black veil, amused.

“No scandals,” I continued. “No threats to my staff, no public embarrassment. You will not speak to the press. You will not drag my name through whatever hell you call fun. Is that clear?”

She didn’t respond.

I kept going.

“You will be expected to attend certain events with me. You will smile, behave, and not flirt with anyone unless you want to lose a tooth.”

She smirked now. Full lips curling with dangerous delight.

“Is this the part where you slap a collar on me, husband?”

“I’m serious, Zara.”

“Oh, I know.” Her voice dipped lower. “You’re so serious… it’s almost cute.”

She leaned forward and, in one fluid motion, tugged the bodice of her black gown down just enough to expose the full swell of her breasts—round, soft, too perfect to ignore. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Wouldn’t you wanna touch this?” she whispered, tilting her head. “I mean, since we’re married and all…”

My jaw tightened. My hands curled into fists in my lap.

I didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But I looked.

God help me, I looked.

Her breasts were flawless. Pale and smooth like they were carved for sin. And the fact that she was offering them, knowing she was untouchable, knowing she had power over my body already—it was infuriating.

And intoxicating.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I simply stared out the window again, pulse thrumming in my throat.

She scoffed. Adjusted her dress. And whispered so only I could hear:

“Coward.”

She’d learn soon enough.

I wasn’t afraid to touch fire.

I just liked to wait until it burned the brightest.

She disappeared into the guest wing like a queen without a throne.

And I finally exhaled.

What the hell had I just married?

A wildfire.

I poured a drink, sat in my study, and tried not to think about her — about how the black silk of her dress clung to her like sin, or how she smiled like she wanted to ruin everything I stood for.

But then…

A sound.

Moaning.

Loud. Shameless. Echoing through the marble halls like an erotic symphony.

I froze.

Got up.

Walked toward the living room.

And there she was.

Legs spread, back arched, vibrator in hand. Head thrown back in pleasure, lips parted, a soft gasp escaping her throat.

She looked at me. Saw me watching.

And winked.

Just like that.

I turned away.

Heart pounding. Jaw clenched.

And worse — hard.