THE WEDDING NIGHT

Chapter 1: The Wedding Night

"You look nervous."

I turned from the mirror to see my mother standing in the doorway of the bridal suite, her expression unreadable. My mother had perfected the art of looking composed in any situation, but her eyes were sharp and calculating.

"I am nervous," I admitted, smoothing down the ivory silk of the wedding dress. "I've never met him before."

"That's irrelevant," she said flatly. "The marriage is what matters, not feelings, not nerves. The merger between our families will save your father's company. Everything else is secondary."

I nodded, though her words made my stomach twist. I was twenty-two years old, and I was about to marry a stranger named Miguel Antonio. A man I'd only seen in photographs. A man my family had never actually introduced me to properly.

"Where is Clara?" I asked.

"Getting ready with the other bridesmaids," my mother said, checking her watch. "The ceremony starts in fifteen minutes. Don't embarrass us."

She left without waiting for a response.

I stood alone in the bridal suite, staring at the stranger in the mirror. The girl looking back at me was pale, terrified, dressed like she was being led to slaughter. Because in some ways, that's exactly what was happening.

---

The ceremony passed in a haze of white flowers and whispered vows I could barely hear myself speaking. When I reached the altar, Miguel stood with his eyes fixed on the distance, not on me. He looked powerful, intimidating, completely indifferent to the fact that I was shaking beside him.

"Do you take this woman to be your wife?" the vicar asked Miguel.

"I do," he said, his voice steady and cold.

When it came time for him to place the ring on my finger, his hand was warm but his touch was mechanical. He didn't look at my face. Not once.

The reception was torture. I watched Miguel from across the ballroom, charming guests, accepting congratulations for a marriage he clearly didn't want. And everywhere I looked, Clara was there, laughing with his friends, dancing near him, touching his arm whenever she had the chance.

My father appeared at my elbow with a glass of whiskey pressed into my hand.

"Drink," he said quietly. "It will help with the nerves."

"I don't want to drink," I whispered.

"It's not about what you want," he said, and there was something in his voice, guilt, maybe, or resignation. "Just drink it."

---

The car ride to Antonio Manor was silent and suffocating. Miguel sat across from me, his tie loosened, his jaw clenched tight. He'd been drinking heavily at the reception. I could smell the whiskey on him, could see the way his eyes were slightly unfocused.

"Long day," he said, speaking to the window, not to me.

"Yes," I agreed softly.

He didn't respond. He didn't even look in my direction.

---

I waited in the master bedroom for what felt like an eternity.

The nightgown my mother had chosen was ivory silk. Delicate, expensive, completely impractical. I'd changed into it after arriving at the manor, and now I sat on the edge of the enormous bed, my hands shaking.

This was it. This was my wedding night. This was the moment that would bind me to a man I didn't know.

The door opened around midnight, and Miguel stumbled in. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair disheveled. He was drunk, his balance became difficult.

"There you are," he said, as if I'd been hiding from him.

"I've been here," I said quietly. "Since we arrived."

He moved to the decanter of whiskey on the side table and poured himself another drink. His hands were steady despite his obvious intoxication. The kind of practiced steadiness that came from someone who drank regularly.

"You look beautiful," he said, finally turning to look at me. But his eyes were glassy, unfocused. He wasn't really seeing me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He drank the whiskey in one long swallow and began undressing. His jacket dropped to the chair. His waistcoat followed. Button by button, his shirt came open, revealing the broad, muscled chest I'd glimpsed at the altar.

I should have felt attracted. Instead, I felt terror.

"Get into bed," he commanded.

I climbed under the covers, pulling them up to my chin like they could protect me from what was about to happen.

Miguel joined me in the darkness, and the mattress dipped under his weight. He smelt like expensive cologne and whiskey, a scent that would haunt me.

He reached for me without preamble, without tenderness, without any acknowledgment that this was our wedding night and I was terrified. His kiss tasted of alcohol. His hands were rough on my skin.

"Clara," he murmured against my neck. "God, Clara."

My entire body went rigid.

He said it again, his voice thick with desire and whiskey. "Clara... yes, Clara..."

He wasn't kissing me. He was kissing someone else entirely. His hands moved across my body, but his mind was somewhere else, with someone else. My sister.

I lay beneath him in complete silence, my eyes open in the darkness, staring at nothing. His weight was on top of me, but I felt completely invisible. He finished quickly, rolled away from me, and passed out almost immediately.

I lay there in the darkness, not moving, barely breathing.

He'd called out another woman's name on our wedding night or was he just mistaking me for Clara?