Brewing Chaos

Milan, Italy.

ALINA

My father will kill me.

Cold air bites at my skin, slipping beneath the thin fabric as shudders crawl down my spine. My teeth sink into my bottom lip, holding back the sound rising in my throat. The stylists tug at the corset strings, harder and harder, until it feels like they’re squeezing the air straight out of my lungs.

I curl my hands into fists. One more pull and I swear my ribs will snap.

I love this job. I do. But right now, it feels like death dressed in satin.

My phone rings again, shrill, insistent, for the third time in less than ten minutes. Archer’s lips twist into a scowl, his eyes flashing irritation as the sound slices through the studio. I offer him a tight, guilty smile, then grab the phone before the crew loses patience completely.

“Dad, I’m at work. I’ll call you back later.” My voice drops to a whisper as I slip out of the room.

“You need to come home. Now.”

The command in his voice freezes me.

I press my palm against the corset, sucking in whatever breath the fabric allows. “I can’t, Dad. I need this—”

“Home. Now, Alina.” The call cuts off, sharp and cold, leaving his voice echoing inside my skull.

I stare at the screen, pulse hammering. He’s been calling for an hour, and when I finally answer, this is what I get? Drop everything. Run home. No explanation. No choice.

Worst-case scenarios flash through my mind. My chest tightens, partly the corset, partly the way his voice carried that edge of danger.

I dial my sister, Brielle, desperate. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Again. Nothing.

Panic stirs low in my stomach. If she’s not answering, then…

Shoving the phone at Archer, I hurry back into the studio. His disapproving shake of the head says it all, but I can’t afford to waste time. The shoot needs to end. Fast.

The set blazes with white lights, bright enough to sting my eyes. The assistant gives me a once-over, her nose wrinkling like the sight of me in too-small lingerie is somehow offensive. I adjust the waistband, the fabric biting into my skin and leaving angry red lines across my hips and ass.

“Ready?” she asks flatly.

No. But I nod anyway.

The photographer lifts his camera. I angle my body, searching for a pose that hides my shaking hands.

That’s when Archer storms back in, my phone in his grip, the ringtone drilling through the air. Rage burns in his eyes as he strides toward me, holding the screen up like evidence.

My father’s name flashes again.

Shit.

I turn back to the photographer. “Keep going,” I murmur, desperate to salvage what’s left.

The ringing stops. A second later, a text chimes.

I don’t need to look to know it’s worse.

“Alina.” Archer’s voice is sharp with frustration. “You should leave.”

The crew stares at me, disappointed, annoyed. My heart caves in on itself. This was my chance, my break, and it’s slipping away in front of everyone.

I take the phone. One glance at the message and my stomach plummets. A threat, clear and cold.

If I don’t leave now, he’ll come. And if he comes, he’ll ruin me.

Tears blur my vision as I rip out of the corset, fumbling into my jeans and crop top with shaky hands. The bra can wait. Dignity can’t.

By the time I step outside, my chest aches with sobs I can’t contain. This was supposed to be it. Twenty submissions. Weeks of waiting. Finally, the job that could launch my modeling career forward.

And it’s over before it begins.

A black car screeches to a stop in front of me, close enough to make me stumble back. The tinted window rolls down.

Another ping vibrates in my hand.

Get in the car.

I stare back at the open car, wiping my smudged face with the back of my hand before bracing myself and hopping in, not bothering to question them.

Thirty minutes later, they pull up at the house, quickly stepping out of the door to help me with mine. Only when I climb down does it hit me that I’ve never seen these men before. Not even anywhere near my father.

My brows creases in confusion as I glance at them driving into the garage. With sagged shoulders and questions at the tip of my tongue, I walk into the house to meet my father’s hard gaze on me. But that’s not what intrigues me.

The house is brimming with unfamiliar faces, walking up and down the large house. I turn to him and without taking his eyes off me, he beckons on one of the women and she hurries to his side.

“Go with her. To your room.”

“What’s going on?” I inquire, my eyes darting between him and the aged woman.

Without another word, he turns away on his heels and heads for the study, leaving me alone with the woman in confusion.

I follow her to my room, wondering what exactly is going on. Once we get in, she gestures to my vanity table and I sit down instinctively, looking at her through my lashes from the mirror.

Two other women walk into the room with boxes in their hands and that’s when I become curious, staring at them with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper and I know they can tell that I’d just cried.

“Hair and makeup, Miss Alina. The stylist will be here for your final fitting soon.” The woman from earlier responds, getting to my hair immediately.

I yank my hair away from her hand, rising up from the chair and walking out of the door in rage.

My steps are quick as I head for my father’s study, different thoughts running through my mind. I halt in front of the large, oak door and knock. Seconds pass before a dark man with sunglasses peeks from behind it.

“And who are you?” I ask, pushing through the door.

His hand shoots out to stop me from coming in, but my father’s voice reassures him to let me. I glare at the man and walk in, standing in front of my father’s brown table where numerous, strange books are carefully arranged.

“What’s going on? Why am I getting dressed?” Annoyance clouds my voice, my ragged breaths nearly failing to express my spiraling emotions.

He looks up from his laptop and takes off his glasses, relaxing into his chair with a tight jaw and staring straight ahead.

“Leave.”

My face squeezes with confusion. “What?”

Just before I can question him, the door makes a creaking sound and clicks shut, giving me an answer.

Folding my arms across my chest, I wait for him to give me an appropriate answer. Nothing is making any sense to me right now and the earlier he explains what exactly is going on, the less likely I am to go insane.

“You should be getting dressed.”

I shake my head. “No, I should be getting an explanation from you. What is going on and who are those people?”

He stays quiet, fiddling with the frame of the glass seated on the table.

I narrow my gaze at him, frustration clawing at my skin. “Don’t I at least deserve to know what’s going on?”

“You’re getting married. Right now.” His icy voice responds and my blood runs cold.

What?

My mind goes blank for a minute, wondering if my boyfriend had been here. We’re not getting engaged until the next two weeks.

“Jeremy was here? And-“ I pause, assessing his statement before realizing what he’d just said.

“Right now? But we are-“

“You’re not getting married to that lowlife.” He slides his reading glasses back on his eyes, adjusting it on his nose.

“Go back to your room and get ready. The wedding starts in an hour.”

As I open my mouth to protest, he picks up a blue file and drops it on the table, flicking it towards me.

“Read it.” He commands with a cold stare.

With uncertainty framing my brows, I pick it up, flipping the first page open.

My eyes quietly scan through the pages, cold sweat breaking out on my skin as the file trembles in my hands. I look back up at him with wide, scared eyes.

“You’re marrying me off?” Shock is evident in my voice as I ask, unable to believe what I’d just read.

“Yes. Now, you’ll do as I say and go get dressed.”

I blink slowly, fixating on him. My grip on the file tightens and I swallow hard, my chest pounding against my ribs as I slam it on the table.

“I’m not doing this.” I deadpan and blink back the stinging tears, turning around to leave the room when his next words freeze me in place.

“Don’t make me force you, Alina.”

My throat closes up and I chew the inside of my cheeks to stop my tears. I open my mouth to argue but words fail me as the door creaks open, a familiar scent hitting my nostrils and enveloping the room. Haunting. Inescapable. Chilling.

Adrian Ferraro, the definition of ruin, walks into the room, the atmosphere darkening. His eyes find mine, pinning me in place as I lose all the air in my lungs.

“You’re early.” My father says, rising from his seat.

Adrian studies me, his gaze searching deep like he’s trying to read the parts of me that he broke. Then his lips part.

“I can’t be late to my wedding.”

The words slam into me like a bullet. My heart shatters, the sound of the pieces scattering in my chest fills my ears as it dawns on me. I’m not just marrying any stranger.

I’m marrying my ex.