Dressing the Devil’s Bride

"Hell hath no fury like a woman the devil mistook for weak."

I had never seen this many people working this fast in my life. And that includes the time Mother had to throw together a last-minute charity gala when the governor’s wife RSVP’d two hours before the event.

The house was chaos. Seamstresses moved like bees with scissors, shoes were being unpacked from velvet boxes, hairstylist whispered in corners about updos and tiaras, and a woman in head to toe black was talking about caldle placement with the gravity of a surgeon in the middle of an operation.

The room smelled like roses. Not the kind in the wild from my garden. I had taken to spending early mornings there, fingers deep in the soil. Those were proud and thorned, grown in defiance of the world. These were different soft, flawless, and too pristine. Bred for beauty, not survival.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my room, staring at the row of dresses lined up behind me. Black. Every one of them. The soft murmur of stylists fluttered around me, carrying pins and measuring tape like weapons.

They brought me black lace.

Of course they did.

I could still feel him from this morning.

Dante had stopped by my door before leaving. I’d heard his footsteps pause, had felt his presence lingering like the shadow of a storm. I pretended to be asleep. I refused to open my eyes and acknowledge him.

He came to inspect the bride he’d bought.

Amara sat sprawled on the fainting couch, tossing grapes into her mouth like a roman empress. 

"I swear to God, Soph, if one more person touches your eyebrows without consent, I'm going to call HR."

"There is no HR" I muttered "This house is a dictatorship, There's just Sterling and Dante. And Dante''s suits and possibly Lucifer himself in disguise."

Amara snorted. "Same thing"

There was a knock, and my mother entered with Ella on her heels. Mother took one look at the line of black dresses and her mouth pinched. She didn’t speak, but that look said everything. Black lace for her virgin daughter? It was an offense she didn’t have words for.

Ella spoke "Soph is black not a little ehh..."

I stared at the mirror, arms folded tightly. “Wouldn’t be happening if your parents weren’t both so eager to sell me off,” I said flatly.

My mother flinched, but kept her tone gentle. “Sophia—please, can you just return your father’s call?”

I didn’t look at her.                                                                                                                                            “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but he wants to talk to you. He wants to explain.”

“No,” I said.

Ella sat on the window seat, absorbed in her phone, but she chimed in, trying to mediate. “Soph, maybe just hear him out? You don’t have to forgive him, but at least—”

I snapped, “This is not about forgiveness. It’s about choice. Something none of you seem to think I deserve.”

I wanted rage.

Rage gave me purpose. It gave me edge.

Ella looked up, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Can we maybe not burn the house down before the rehearsal dinner?”

I sighed and dropped it. For now. I wouldn’t deprive my mother the image of grace and honor during her daughter’s wedding, even if it was all fake.

Ms. Sterling walked in prim and unbothered as always.

“Let’s begin. Dante requested lace, and we’ve had this bodice tailored to precision. Breathe in, dear. Dante said you have a narrow waist, but we worked off precise measurements.”

“Dante doesn’t know the first thing about my body,” I said coldly.

A lie.

A stupid, self-protecting lie.

Because I could still feel the ghost of his touch from last night. His hands on my hips like he owned them, his mouth dragging power from mine. And I’d hated how my body responded. How it remembered. How it burned.

Ms. Sterling raised an eyebrow. “This black lace is hand-embroidered. Italian. Symbolic. Timeless.”

"Take it away and bring me something in a different color" I stared at the gowns not speaking. The stylist hovered nerby, sensing blood in the water, but not sure whose it would be.

She looked mildly surprised. “Dante asked for black lace dear”

“I said take.it.away I wont wear that” I said, voice like steel.

She pressed her lips into a tight line.

“And what would you preferblinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“White,” I said. “Or ivory. Or blush. Something that actually reflects the truth.” 

“Considering the circumstances Miss Moretti,” Sterling began carefully, 

“I am a virgin,” I snapped. “You can tell your precious Dante that if he wants to parade me around like property, he’d better dress me in a color that reflects the value he’s placing on my so-called innocencese this spectacle as anything other than a threat dressed up as a wedding, he’ll choose a gown that reflects innocence. Not execution.”

Sterling’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Understood.”

A pause.

“Bring the other options,” she snapped to the stylist.

“And blush pink,” I added, chin lifted. “It’s still white but with a little color.”

Minutes passed.

The stylist returned carrying a soft blush-pink gown. It shimmered faintly in the light, floor-length with sheer sleeves and delicate lace across the bodice.

Romantic.

Feminine.

Nothing like me.

But still not black.

I stepped into it without help.

I would not be dressed like a corpse walking to her execution.

Stylists tugged at fabric, twisted curls, whispered about blush tones and silk gloves.

“Keep the neckline softer,” my mother said, her voice suddenly tender. “Sophia’s bone structure doesn’t need aggression.”

Amara leaned against the wall, sipping cucumber water. “She needs something she can breathe in. God knows she won’t get much air after this.”

“Charming,” I muttered.

“Holy shit,” Amara gasped.

“You look like a goddess,” she said, eyes wide. “Like Aphrodite if she was born in Manhattan and carried brass knuckles.”

My lips twitched. “Is that a compliment?”

“The highest.”

Amara picked her bag and unzipped a smaller velvet box. “And now, for the ancient tradition of the best friend gifting you something wildly inappropriate.”

I opened the box.

Lingerie. Black silk. Barely-there. Scandalous.

"what is everyones obsession with me and black" I laughed.

“Amara,” my mother said warningly.

“She’s still a child,” I said, glancing at Ella.

“I’m fifteen,” Ella huffed. “I know what lingerie is.”

The door opened.

I didn’t turn.

I didn’t have to.

The air turned thick, suffocating, like the room itself was holding its breath. His cologne hit me first I could smell that stupid bergamot cologne a scent that curled low in my stomach and pooled between my thighs and my fists clench at the same time

He entered like he always did. Like he belonged in the doorway of a room he hadn’t been invited into. Like everything inside that room would recognize him as king whether it wanted to or not

Dante.

Then he stepped forward

One step. Two. I didn’t move

“Bella.” His voice was a rough caress, a promise of sin. “I asked for black lace.”

I exhaled, slow, letting my fingers trail over the delicate fabric hugging my hips. “I wanted white.”

“Ouuu,” Ella and Amara snickered.

Dante didn’t even glance at them. His eyes black as hell, hot as damnation never left mine in the mirror. “Leave us.”

The room emptied. The door clicked shut. Silence wrapped around us, heavy and slick with anticipation.

He stopped a foot away. Looked down at me like I was an entire battlefield wrapped in satin and blush pink.

He moved like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to take it. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, each one a drumbeat of possession. He stopped behind me, so close the heat of his body seared through the thin lace of my dress.

Our reflections tangled in the mirror his towering frame, the sinful cut of his shirt stretched over his chest, the way his fingers flexed like he was imagining them on my skin. His gaze dragged over me, lingering on the swell of my breasts, the way the fabric clung to my nipples, the curve of my hips.

"Came to inspect?” I asked.

He smiled. “Naturally.”

“I don’t recall inviting you.”

He stepped closer. His breath skated over my bare shoulder, sending a shiver straight to my core.

“You’re wearing pink,” he murmured, voice like gravel.

“Close enough,” I breathed.

“Pink is a compromise?” His lips brushed my ear, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Or are you just wet enough already to stain it darker?”

My breath hitched.

His smirk was a slow, wicked thing. “I told them lace. Not black. Just lace.” His fingers hovered near the hem of my dress, not touching taunting. “I wanted to see every fucking inch of you through it.”

I shifted, but his hand snapped out, catching the fabric between his fingers. The lace pulled taut, the delicate threads straining just like my self-control.

“I want to inspect the fit,” he said, his thumb brushing the inside of my thigh. A ghost of a touch. A threat.

I laughed, sharp and breathless. “You mean you want to taste.”

“I mean,” he growled, “I want to peel this off with my teeth and see if you come just from my mouth on you.”

The words punched through me, liquid heat flooding my veins.

“You own the papers. The title. The show.” I turned, my chest heaving. “Not me.”

He didn’t move, but his presence was a hand around my throat. His gaze dropped to my lips, then lower to the lace barely covering what he wanted. “You’re in my house. Wearing my dress. Taking my name.”

“I’m not wearing it yet.”

“You will be.” His hand hovered over my waist, his fingers flexing like he was imagining the bruises he’d leave. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you remember exactly who put it on you.”

His lips grazed my ear, his voice a dark promise. “And who takes it off.”

A whimper caught in my throat.

His chuckle was pure sin. “Tell me, bella—do you think about it? My hands on you? My mouth between your legs? My cock stretching you open on our wedding night?”

My knees nearly buckled.

His gaze burned through me. "I’ll make sure you scream my name before I even fuck you.”

He stepped back, leaving me aching, empty. 

And I stood there dripping.

God, I hated that he could make me feel anything.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

“You will hate me more tomorrow,” he said, “when you realize how much you want me.”

I hated that he was right.

“I have to go get fitted,” he said suddenly. “I'm getting fitted. Can’t have my future wife looking perfect while I show up wrinkled.”

“You’d still look dangerous.”

“You’d still look mine.”

He turned, but not before his fingers brushed mine just enough to spark fire.

"Tomorrow, we’re husband and wife. I’ll be yours. As much as you are mine.”

And then he was gone.

“Holy shit,” Amara and Ella emerging from behind the door. “You’ve got it bad.”

Butterflies rioted in my stomach.

“Shut up.”Damn traitors.

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

Amara flopped dramatically on the bed.

I chucked a hairbrush at her head.

she ducked. “Admit it. You’ve got a thing for the Devil.”

Maybe I did

I’m in trouble.”

She grinned. “Welcome to the family.”I sat down beside her, suddenly quiet.

“Amara,” I said, “I want you to stand with me tomorrow. Be my maid of honor.”

“You’re the only person who’s told me the truth through all of this. You keep me sane. And I want someone near me who doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood.”

“I mean, if there’s blood at your wedding, you’re doing it right.”

“I’m serious.”

Her grin softened. “Then yes. Of course, yes.”

“Hey!” Ella piped up from the corner, where she’d been fiddling with her phone. “What about me? I’m your sister too!”

I smirked. “You’re a bridesmaid. Deal with it.”

Ella threw a pillow at me. “Rude.”

“You’ll survive.” 

I couldn't find mum anywhere so I assume she's probably making arrangements with Sterling. 

Later, when the house finally quieted and the sun turned gold on the windowsills, my mother came to my room.

She sat beside me on the bed, smoothing her skirt like she didn’t know what to say.

“You’ve grown into someone strong,” she said finally.

“Not strong enough to get out of this.”

“No. But strong enough to stand through it.” She placed a hand on mine. “I know you don’t love him. I know this feels like surrender. But you’re doing something many women never have the courage to do—putting family first.”

I didn’t reply.

“You may not see it now,” she continued, “but he will come to respect you. And in time… love grows. Even in places you never wanted it to.”

I swallowed hard.

“I’m proud of you, Sophia.”

That was the part that broke me.

Because I had wanted that more than anything. Even now.

Even after everything.

Alone in my room tired from the day's activites my phone buzzed.

Ricci had wiped and reprogrammed it. It wasn’t mine anymore.

But the name on the screen still hit hard.

Dad.

I answered.

“Sophia,” he said, “I—I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You signed me away,” I said. “Like property.”

“No. It was to protect you—”

“You don’t know what that word means.”

Silence.

“Dante would’ve killed me.”

“You should have fought for me. What does he have on you?”

“Everything,” he said quietly. “He has all the power now.”

He hesitated. “Will you let me walk you down the aisle?”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re still my dad,” I said. “I could never take that from you.”

I hung up.

I turned to the mirror.

The girl in the glass looked unchanged.

But something in her eyes had cracked.

Something sharp.

Something patient.

Tomorrow I would become a bride.

Let him touch lace and call it possession.

I would bide my time.

Because if the devil thinks he’s won

He’s forgotten what angels do when they fall.