002

Serafina De Luca:

Something rough scraped across my skin.

I jerked with a strangled gasp.

Pain shot through the back of my skull.

My eyes flew open, but everything was a blur of gold ceilings, spinning shadows, and sharp female voices.

“Hold her still.”

Cold water splashed over me.

I cried out.

Two women had me by the arms.

No—three.

My body was submerged in a claw-foot bathtub, and a maid I vaguely recognized from downstairs was scrubbing my shoulder with such force it felt like she was trying to peel my skin off.

“W-what…” My throat burned. “What’s happening?”

The maid on my right slapped me.

Not hard enough to knock me sideways.

Hard enough to silence me.

“Shut up,” she hissed. “Do you want us all punished?”

I stared at her, stunned.

My head pounded viciously as fragmented memories came rushing back.

The staircase.

My father’s shove.

The fall.

Darkness.

My chest tightened instantly.

“No…” I whispered, trying to sit up.

The maids pushed me back down.

“Please—please, I need to speak to my father—”

Another harsh scrub across my neck.

One of them snorted.

“Your father?” she muttered. “That man sold you yesterday.”

My lips parted.

Sold.

The word sat like poison in my stomach.

The women continued bathing me like I was an object and not a person—lifting my arms, yanking my hair free from its tangled knot, washing blood from the side of my temple where I must have hit the stairs.

Their fingers were rough.

Impatient.

One pinched my chin when I started trembling too hard.

“Stop shaking.”

“I-I’m trying…”

“Well, try harder.”

Tears slipped down the corners of my eyes and mixed with the bathwater.

No one cared.

No one ever did.

By the time they dragged me out, my skin was pink from scrubbing and my knees felt too weak to hold me upright.

A towel was thrown around me.

“Move.”

I obeyed automatically.

Still dizzy.

Still numb.

Still praying this was some twisted nightmare I would wake from.

They pushed me toward the center of the room.

That was when I saw it.

The dress.

Hanging from the wardrobe like an execution sentence.

White silk.

Long lace sleeves.

Intricate beading across the bodice.

A cathedral veil spilling down either side like ghostly mist.

A wedding gown.

My breathing stopped.

“No.”

One of the maids rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“No, no, no…” I stumbled backward, shaking my head violently. “Please… there has to be some mistake…”

“There is no mistake.”

“I can’t wear that.”

Another maid laughed.

“You can and you will.”

My back hit the vanity table.

I gripped the edge so hard my fingers hurt.

“I don’t want to get married.”

The oldest maid among them turned to me with a cold stare.

“Do you think anyone asked what you wanted?”

That shut me up.

Because no.

No one had ever asked me that before.

Not once in ten years.

The maids descended on me.

Hands everywhere.

Too many hands.

They yanked the towel away before I could cover myself.

I flinched violently.

“Please…”

“Lift your arms.”

“I’m scared—”

“Lift your arms, girl!”

I did.

I always did.

The gown slid over my body.

The silk was expensive.

Smooth.

Far too beautiful for someone like me.

One maid tightened the corset until I winced.

Another jerked my hair into a low elegant twist.

A third dusted powder over my bruised cheek and the dark circles under my eyes, muttering that no amount of makeup could make me look bridal.

They all laughed.

I stood there and let them.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

Every few seconds my eyes drifted to the mirror.

The girl staring back looked unfamiliar.

Pale.

Wide-eyed.

Pretty in the fragile way dying flowers are pretty.

The white dress made me look innocent.

Which felt almost insulting.

Because innocence had never protected me from anything.

One maid shoved pearl earrings into my ears.

Another dropped the veil over my face.

For a second the world turned hazy and white.

Distant.

Like I had already become a ghost.

The oldest maid stepped back and folded her arms.

“Well,” she said dryly, “you clean up better than expected.”

The younger one smirked.

“Still deserves this marriage.”

They moved for the door.

I took one shaky step after them.

“Wait… please… can someone tell me what’s happening?”

No one answered.

The door swung open.

And there they were.

My father.

Rosalina.

Mirabella.

All dressed as if attending some grand celebration.

My father wore a tailored black suit with a silver tie.

Rosalina glittered in emerald satin and diamonds.

Mirabella stood beside her in blush pink, smiling like this was the social event of the season.

For a stupid, stupid second my heart clenched.

Because they were all looking at me.

At me.

As if I mattered.

Rosalina pressed a manicured hand to her chest dramatically.

“Oh, Serafina,” she breathed. “Look at you.”

Mirabella smiled with false sweetness.

“You almost look worthy.”

I swallowed.

My father stepped forward.

This man had not touched me kindly since I was twelve.

Yet now he adjusted the edge of my veil with almost fatherly precision.

“You’re doing something important for this family today,” he said.

My throat tightened.

Important.

Useful.

Needed.

Rosalina nodded approvingly.

“The Marazonas will save us from ruin because of you.”

Mirabella linked her arm through mine.

“See? For once your existence means something.”

The words should have hurt.

They did hurt.

But beneath the hurt was something uglier.

Relief.

A starving little part of me clung to the idea that maybe… maybe if I did this, they would stop hating me.

Maybe if I obeyed enough, I could finally belong.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

Yet I followed them.

Out of the room.

Downstairs.

Out the grand front doors I was rarely allowed to use.

The morning air struck my face.

Bright.

Too bright.

At the bottom of the stairs sat the black family limousine.

I slowed.

I had seen this car a thousand times.

Watched Rosalina and Mirabella slide into it while I carried groceries in through the servants’ entrance.

I had never once been invited inside.

Father opened the rear door.

“Get in.”

I hesitated only a second before ducking inside.

The leather seats were cool.

Soft.

They smelled like expensive cologne and polish.

Mirabella and Rosalina sat across from me.

Father beside the driver.

No one spoke.

As the gates opened and the car rolled away from the mansion, I pressed my clammy hands together in my lap.

The city blurred past.

My stomach churned.

Every bump in the road made nausea climb higher.

I tried swallowing it down.

Tried breathing slowly.

It didn’t work.

“Father…” My voice came out thin. “I don’t feel well.”

He didn’t even turn.

“You’ll survive.”

“I think I might be sick.”

His jaw tightened.

“I said be quiet.”

I bit my lip.

Hard.

Rosalina sighed dramatically. “Don’t start embarrassing us now.”

Mirabella stared at her phone.

No one looked at me again.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Then the limousine turned through a set of iron gates.

And I saw it.

St. Benedict’s Cathedral.

Massive.

Ancient.

Stone saints staring down from the high arches.

Catholic bells tolling somewhere overhead.

My blood ran cold.

This was real.

This was not some cruel joke.

This was a wedding.

My wedding.

My fingers dug into the leather seat.

No.

No no no—

The car stopped.

Father exited first.

Rosalina and Mirabella followed.

A driver opened my door.

I stepped out on shaking legs.

The cathedral loomed over me like judgment.

My veil fluttered in the wind.

My lungs forgot how to work.

Rosalina pinched my arm through the dress.

“Walk.”

I stumbled forward.

Each step felt wrong.

Heavy.

Funereal.

Inside, the cathedral was dim and echoing, sunlight filtering through stained glass windows in bloodred and gold patterns.

Candles flickered.

Incense hung in the air.

The organ played softly somewhere in the background.

And then I saw them.

Men.

Dressed in pure black.

At least a dozen of them lining the pews and the walls like silent executioners.

Their faces were expressionless.

Their eyes watchful.

Dangerous.

My pulse slammed against my throat.

At the front sat another family.

Elegant.

Cold.

Power radiated off them in suffocating waves.

The Marazonas.

I knew it instantly.

Rosalina’s smile brightened as she moved to greet an older woman in diamonds.

Mirabella sat gracefully beside her.

My father adjusted his jacket.

And me?

I stood frozen at the entrance, feeling like prey that had wandered into the wrong forest.

“Move,” Father hissed behind me.

My feet obeyed.

One trembling step after another down the long aisle.

The cathedral seemed to stretch forever.

My breathing turned shallow.

My ears rang.

And then—

I saw him.

Waiting at the altar.

Black suit.

Broad shoulders.

Hands clasped behind him.

He stood perfectly still.

Perfectly composed.

Like a king waiting to claim tribute.

This was Vincenzo Marazona?

I blinked through the veil.

He didn’t look sick.

Thank God.

No, that was the wrong thought.

He didn’t look sick.

He looked terrifying.

His face was cut from hard lines and colder intentions.

Dark hair swept neatly back.

Sharp cheekbones.

A mouth that did not seem familiar with smiling.

His eyes—

Dear God.

Even from a distance they looked merciless.

Not ill.

Not weak.

Just ruthless.

My knees nearly buckled.

I stopped breathing.

This was worse.

Far worse.

Because dying men were supposed to look fragile.

This one looked like he buried people for sport.

I finally reached the altar.

The priest smiled uncertainly at me, perhaps noticing how violently I was shaking.

Vincenzo looked down.

His gaze swept over me once.

Detached.

Unreadable.

As if assessing a package delivered slightly late.

No warmth.

No curiosity.

Nothing.

The ceremony began.

I heard almost none of it.

Only fragments.

Holy matrimony.

Sacred union.

Till death do us part.

Death.

That word lodged in my chest.

My hands shook so hard the bouquet rustled.

The priest asked him his vows.

Vincenzo answered in a deep calm voice.

Steady.

Controlled.

Like none of this mattered.

Then the priest turned to me.

My mouth had gone dry.

“Do you, Miss…?”

He squinted at the paper.

I swallowed.

“S-Serafina,” I whispered.

“Ah, yes. Serafina.”

Heat flooded my face.

My voice sounded embarrassingly small in the huge cathedral.

The priest continued.

I repeated words I barely understood.

Words that chained me tighter with every syllable.

When it was done, he reached up and gently pushed my veil back.

Cool air kissed my face.

For the first time, Vincenzo Marazona saw me clearly.

And for the first time, I saw him without the white haze between us.

He was beautiful.

In the same way thunderstorms are beautiful.

Deadly.

Untouchable.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

His eyes narrowed.

Not in admiration.

In confusion.

Then suspicion.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

The priest beamed.

“I now present to you, Serafina and Vincenzo Marazona, husband and wife.”

A ripple of applause sounded.

But Vincenzo did not move.

Did not smile.

Did not look pleased.

He kept staring at me.

And slowly—

very slowly—

his expression turned murderous.