Chapter 3: The bride’s mask

“Marcelo Bernardo…”

I whispered his name into the dark interior of the car as if saying it softly enough would strip it of its weight. The syllables clung to my tongue, heavy, magnetic, impossible to shake off. I said it again, barely louder than breath.

“Marcelo Bernardo.”

The driver didn’t even twitch. My voice was swallowed by the hum of engine on full speed which made me anxious, but the name filled my chest like a stone. Ever since Elena had first said it—so casually, with that little curve of disdain on her lips—it had haunted me. That’s who you’ll belong to for one night. Just do as I say, and you’ll leave with enough money to take care of your mother and sister for months.

It had sounded easy in theory. Elena simply made everything sound easy. But the way she leaned forward, gripping my chin so tight her manicured nails pressed crescents into my skin, burned the words into me like a brand:

“Say little. Obey. Dance to his music.”

That was her golden rule. Her number one commandment. She repeated it so many times that night I could hear it in the rhythm of my pulse. Speak little. Obey. Dance. To. His. Music.

I pressed my lips together in the dark window, staring at my reflection. Her reflection, not mine.

The eyeliner wasn’t my style—winged sharp, tilted upward at the corners to lengthen my eyes. The lipstick was too muted, too composed. Elena had drilled me in front of her vanity mirror for hours, forcing me to hold the brushes until my hands didn’t shake, showing me how she lifted her chin at certain angles, how she never blinked too quickly, how silence was more powerful than speech.

“You’ll never pass if you act like yourself. You have to disappear, Rae. No one’s asking for you. They’re asking for me.”

Little did I know the actual weight of those words.

And so here I was—out in the wild, playing Elena.

The car slowed. My stomach lurched before the vehicle even stopped. The gates loomed ahead, taller than anything I had ever stood beneath, sharp black bars cutting the night into sections. Beyond them, lights glittered faintly, drawing me into their gravity.

The driver announced nothing. The gates peeled open without a sound, like the world had already expected me.

My fingers toyed with the hem of the dress Elena had picked. Black silk, sleek and heavy, like it carried its own kind of authority. The neckline dipped just enough to draw attention without being scandalous, and the bodice clung tighter than I was used to, sculpting me into someone sharper, bolder.

“Marcelo Bernardo,” I whispered again as the car rolled forward, though this time the name came out ragged, broken. My chest was tight. The closer I got, the harder it was to imagine that I had ever spoken his name freely.

By the time the car stopped at the grand stairs of the mansion, my throat had closed up entirely. His presence hadn’t even touched me yet, and already, the rule made sense. Say little. Obey. Dance to his music.

The doors opened before I could find my breath. The butler bowed without a word, his face unreadable, his movements rehearsed. He didn’t ask my name. He didn’t ask who I was. He already knew me. I wasn’t Rae anymore—I was Elena.

The moment I stepped into the foyer, the air changed. Cold. Heavy. It pressed against my chest, curling invisible fingers around my throat. The dress flowed when I moved, almost too elegant, like it had a life of its own. And then I saw him.

Marcelo Bernardo.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Every detail about him looked carved, deliberate, as if God had spent longer than usual chiseling the sharp line of his jaw, the cruel set of his mouth. His dark hair was combed back, but not slicked—just controlled. His eyes lifted as I entered, and I felt myself collapse inside.

Handsome didn’t begin to cover it. He was devastating. Beautiful in a way that unsettled you, that made you doubt if you were looking at a man at all, or some kind of predator that had learned to walk upright.

The air thinned the moment his gaze touched me. My body knew before my mind did: this was a man who had power without lifting a finger.

I thought of how I had whispered his name in the car, almost playfully, daring myself to get used to it. Here, under his stare, I couldn’t even form the first syllable. I had no reason to. His aura made the rule reverb in my head: say little. Obey. Dance to his music.

“Come,” he said simply.

No warmth. No welcome. Just the single syllable, sharp enough to slice through me.

I followed Marcelo through echoing halls that felt more like a cathedral than a home. When we reached the dining room, the polished table stretched forever under the light of the chandeliers. People were already seated, their eyes flicking up as we entered.

The stares weren’t direct, but I felt them. Heavy. Assessing. They didn’t speak to me—only to Marcelo. Still, I sat stiff, wishing I could sink into the floor.

At the far end sat a woman in navy silk, her hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. She lifted her gaze to me, and for a second I couldn’t breathe.

“We’ve met before,” she said, her voice smooth. “At your engagement party with my son. But you didn’t say much.”

My stomach dropped. Rosa Bernardo. His mother.

She let the silence hang before continuing, her eyes steady on me. “Do you read, dear? Books, I mean.”

I felt Marcelo’s hand graze the table near mine, a silent command to wait. His gaze cut to me, sharp, making sure I understood. Only when he gave the faintest nod did I let the words slip out.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Mostly novels.”

“That’s good,” Rosa murmured, already turning her attention back to her plate, as if I were nothing more than a passing thought.

The rest of dinner carried on like a ritual—soft silverware against porcelain, polite voices speaking around me, never to me. Marcelo guided everything without needing to say much. I sat in silence, repeating Elena’s rule over and over in my head. Say little. Obey.

And yet, even with Rosa’s words still echoing, all I could think about was how badly I wanted this to end. To escape the stares, the weight of Marcelo’s eyes, and just go home.

Every time I dipped my head, every moment I remained silent, I felt Marcelo’s gaze linger. Heavy, appraising, but unreadable. Like he was testing me, waiting to see how long I could keep the charade intact.

The food tasted of nothing. My pulse drowned out every flavor. The rest of the dinner went on like a blur and before I knew it, everyone was dismissed.

I only stood when Marcelo did, relieved it was over. I turned quickly, heading the other way, desperate to get out.

His hand caught my wrist. Hard.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, voice low and sharp.

Before I could speak, he pulled me with him, the empty hall echoing with our steps. Everyone else was gone. Just us.

He opened a door, guided me inside. A bedroom.

The lock clicked behind us.

I turned, heart racing, as he stepped closer—slow, deliberate—until there was nowhere left to move, nowhere left to hide.

A part of me had braced for it—that moment when his eyes would narrow, when he’d catch the slip in my voice or the hesitation in my smile. I kept waiting for him to call me out, to rip the mask off and expose me for what I was.

But when the words finally came, it wasn’t about who I was.

It was something I could’ve never been prepared for.

My mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. I had no script for this. Elena hadn’t prepared me.

Marcelo’s eyes narrowed. For the first time, there was heat beneath the ice, a fire barely contained.

“You thought you could come here,” he said, his voice low and lethal, “and not face what you owe me?”

My blood iced. “Owe?”

“The money.” His grip tightened, pulling me closer. “Don’t play games. You stole from me, Elena. And you will pay it back.”

The world spun. Stole? Elena hadn’t said anything about money.

I shook my head, but the denial died before reaching my lips. His gaze burned through me, daring me to speak, daring me to defy.

Marcelo leaned in, his breath a whisper against my cheek, his body caging me against the wall before I realized I was moving.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My lungs forgot their purpose. I had no words, no excuses, no escape.

Elena’s rule screamed in my skull, frantic now, useless: Say little. Obey. Dance to his music.

But the music had changed. And I didn’t know the steps.