Chapter ten: The Devil’s Bride Wore Black

The suite was quiet—too quiet.

It’s my wedding day and even though I know it’s not necessarily a happy day for me, this is utterly weird I thought to myself.

I stood barefoot in my silk robe, staring at the garment bag I was told contained my wedding dress. One of the assistants had just wheeled it in with shaky hands and a pale face.

Something felt off.

Jules leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Why does everyone look like they just escaped a murder scene?”

I stepped closer and unzipped the bag.

The scent hit first—chemicals. Then the visual.

My breath caught.

The dress was ruined.

The soft champagne silk was slashed down the middle, the sleeves shredded beyond repair. The bodice was smeared in something thick and dark red—paint or blood, I couldn’t tell. The delicate veil? Burned. Melted at the edges like someone took a lighter to it and let it curl into ash.

“Where’s the stylist?” I asked, my voice low and even. “She was supposed to be here already.”

The assistant stammered. “She’s… we don’t know. She didn’t check in this morning, and her phone’s off. The footage—”

“Don’t tell me,” I muttered. “The security footage is wiped.”

The girl nodded, eyes wide with guilt.

Jules stepped forward like a storm about to touch down. “Alright, which one of you bitches wants to confess before I start breaking kneecaps?”

“Jules,” I said quietly.

“No, seriously. Give me ten minutes, a locked room, and I’ll find out exactly who thought this was a good idea. And if they’re still breathing by the end, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Jules,” I said again, sharper this time.

She blinked, met my eyes, and backed off with a growl. “Fine. But I’m filing a report.”

I turned away, reaching for my phone.

There was only one person I needed right now.

Dominic.

He answered on the second ring. “What happened?”

“My dress,” I said, steady despite the heat building in my chest. “They destroyed it.”

A pause. Then, “I’m coming.”

He didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t need to.

When Dominic arrived, everything shifted.

He walked in with the weight of a man who didn’t make threats—he made examples.

His eyes landed on the ruined gown.

And his jaw tightened.

“This was planned,” I said. “Someone wanted to make a statement.”

“Then we’ll make a louder one,” he said, stepping beside me. He gestured to one of his men and a black case was brought forward.

He opened it on the vanity without a word.

I gasped.

Inside was a gown unlike anything I had ever seen—midnight black, tailored silk that shimmered like oil under the light. Gold embroidery curled around the hem like flame. The neckline was sharp, the back dipped low, and the sleeves cut just below the shoulder, regal and fierce.

“This isn’t a dress,” I whispered.

“It’s armor,” Dominic said. “And I had it made the moment you said yes.”

“You planned for sabotage?”

“I planned for everything.”

I ran my fingers across the fabric.

“You sure you’re not just a little dramatic?”

He smirked. “I prefer the term strategic.”

Behind me, Jules whistled. “Damn. That dress says ‘touch me and die.’”

“Perfect,” I said.

The drive to the ceremony was slow and calculated. Security was doubled. Cameras flashed even behind barricades. My name had already made headlines—this dress would set them on fire.

When I stepped out of the car and onto the obsidian steps of the cathedral, the whispers hit like a wave.

“She wore black...”

“Is she serious?”

“She looks like a queen.”

“Or a widow who killed her husband for the crown.”

I smiled.

Let them talk.

The doors opened.

And the world followed.

Inside, everything was surreal. The air was thick with anticipation. Guests sat in stiff rows, murmuring behind crystal flutes of champagne.

I walked down the aisle alone.

Not because I was abandoned.

Because I chose to.

The moment my eyes met Dominic’s, I knew. This wasn’t a union of love or softness.

This was war.

And he was my weapon.

We stood beneath a high arch of twisted iron and black roses as the officiant began to speak.

I wasn’t nervous.

Not until the doors slammed open.

Blake.

His suit was wrinkled, tie askew. He looked nothing like the man I once called husband—more like the ghost of his former self, twisted by ego and desperation.

“You’re still my wife!” he shouted, storming down the aisle.

Gasps echoed. Phones rose.

Dominic didn’t flinch.

Blake reached me. Grabbed my arm.

“You think this marriage is real? I didn’t sign the damn papers!”

“Actually,” I said calmly, “your lawyer did.”

He blinked.

“Two hours ago. You might want to check your inbox.”

His face collapsed.

Dominic stepped forward like death in a suit. “Touch her again,” he said, voice low, “and your fingers come off.”

Blake’s eyes widened.

The guards moved.

Two men grabbed him, dragging him back despite his screams.

“She’s using you, Blackwood! She’s pregnant with my child!”

A gasp.

I didn’t even blink.

“Let me go!” Blake shrieked. “Scarlett, you’ll regret this! You’re nothing without me!”

I tilted my head.

“Then why are you the one being dragged out in cuffs?”

The doors slammed shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The officiant cleared his throat. “Shall we continue?”

Dominic took my hand.

I looked up, smiled.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”