The Vows We Never Chose

Camilla sat in the back of the blacked-out SUV, her fingers clutched around the hem of the white silk dress Riccardo had laid out for her. Not a gown—nothing dramatic. Just simple, sleeveless, and elegant. The kind of white that dared you to stain it.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

She looked down at her hands. No bouquet. No bridesmaids. Just trembling fingers that wouldn’t stop.

Riccardo sat beside her, dressed in a black three-piece suit. Not a wrinkle on him. He looked like he was headed to a corporate board meeting, not his own wedding. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression unreadable, and not once had he glanced her way.

This wasn’t romance.

It was a branding.

“You could at least pretend you’re not dragging me into hell,” she muttered.

He finally looked at her. “Hell? Camilla, I own hell. I’m just giving you a front-row seat.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was a weak defense. Because beneath her sarcasm was fear—and he could see it. He always could.

The church wasn’t a church, not really. Not anymore.

Once a cathedral, now a hollowed-out relic with stained-glass windows and flickering candlelight, owned by one of Riccardo’s many shell companies. No guests. No family. Just Riccardo, Camilla, and a priest who didn’t ask questions.

The man of God looked more like an accountant. Cold eyes, thin lips, collar pressed with military precision. He opened the bible with mechanical grace and began the ceremony without flourish.

Riccardo didn’t blink. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t hesitate.

“I, Riccardo Alessandro Falcone, take you, Camilla Moretti, to be my wife—by oath and bond, until death or dishonor.”

Camilla stared at him. The words were too smooth. Too practiced. Like he’d said them before.

When it was her turn, she hesitated.

Her throat was dry. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“I…” she began.

Riccardo stepped closer. Close enough that only she could hear him.

“Say it, Camilla,” he murmured. “Or I’ll bury your father next.”

Her breath caught.

She hated him.

She hated him more than she’d ever hated anyone.

“I, Camilla Moretti,” she choked out, “take you, Riccardo Falcone, to be my husband… by oath and bond. Until death or dishonor.”

The priest didn’t ask if anyone objected. No one was foolish enough to.

He simply declared, “You may now seal the union.”

Riccardo didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, cupped her cheek with a possessive grip, and kissed her—not tenderly, not gently, but with the dark finality of a man claiming what was his.

She didn’t kiss him back. But her lips burned long after he pulled away.

The drive back was silent.

Camilla sat stiffly beside him, staring out the window. Somewhere in the city, brides were tossing bouquets. Laughing. Celebrating.

She had a cold ring on her finger and a devil at her side.

At the estate, the staff greeted them with bowed heads and hushed voices. No one congratulated her. No one met her gaze.

The moment they stepped inside, Riccardo handed his jacket to a maid and loosened his tie.

“Consider this your honeymoon,” he said dryly. “The house. The ocean. The absence of chains.”

She turned on him. “You threatened my father to get me to say the vows.”

“He’s alive, isn’t he?”

“For now.”

Riccardo’s gaze sharpened. “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a promise that I’m not as tame as you think.”

Something flickered in his expression—respect, maybe. Or hunger. She wasn’t sure which unnerved her more.

“You’ll stay in your room,” he said finally. “For now. I need to make arrangements before the next phase.”

“What next phase?” she asked.

But he was already walking away.

That night, Camilla couldn’t sleep.

The ring on her finger felt heavier than it should. She tried to take it off—only to find it wouldn’t budge. Like it had been forged to trap her in every possible way.

So she explored.

The mansion was a maze of high ceilings, shadowed corridors, and locked doors. Cameras in every corner. No photos on the walls. No warmth. Just wealth—and emptiness.

She found a library three times the size of her old apartment. Dozens of shelves, thousands of books, and a chess board left mid-game on a table by the fireplace.

She moved a pawn just to disturb the silence.

“I always open with the Sicilian Defense,” came a voice from behind her.

She spun around, heart hammering.

Riccardo stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

“You didn’t. I don’t sleep much.”

She crossed her arms. “Because of guilt?”

He smirked. “Because of enemies.”

Their eyes locked across the room.

He stepped closer. “Tell me, Camilla… are you going to be one of them?”

Her throat tightened. “Would it matter if I was?”

“No,” he said simply. “Because I always win.”

She didn’t back down. “That’s the thing about kings. Eventually, they bleed like anyone else.”

A tense silence stretched between them, electric and cold.

Then he said something that almost made her knees buckle.

“I didn’t want to do this to you.”

She frowned. “Then why did you?”

He looked into the fire, jaw clenched. “Because I trusted the wrong man once. And it cost me everything. I don’t make that mistake twice.”

“Is that what I am to you?” she asked softly. “A mistake?”

He looked back at her. And for one brief second, something raw flickered in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “You’re a consequence.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Later that night, as Camilla returned to her room, she found a box on her bed.

Inside was a phone. A brand new one.

No lock. No restrictions.

Just one contact saved:

Riccardo.

Below it, a message:

You’re free to leave. But if you do, you’ll be hunted.

Not by me.

By everyone else who knows you’re mine.

She stared at the screen, pulse thundering in her ears.

She was trapped in a palace.

A queen to a king she never asked for.

And every move she made from now on… would be a move against the devil.