You’re my wife.

Finally, the wedding day arrived. To Arabelle, it felt like a cursed day, one she wished would never come. She sat silently in her bedroom, waiting for whoever would be assigned to prepare her. Wedding days were supposed to be filled with joy, excitement, and hope…

But for her, it was nothing but dread.

Lost in her thoughts, the door creaked open. A man in his early thirties walked in, chewing gum loudly, followed by a stylish woman and several young girls carrying garment bags.

“Good morning, Signorina (my lady),” the man greeted with exaggerated flair. “I’m Alex,your makeup and hair stylist. And this gorgeous lady here is…” He gestured dramatically toward the woman beside him.

“Lola,” she introduced with a warm smile. “I’ll be getting you dressed today.”

Arabelle glanced at all of them, her expression empty, and simply nodded.

“Wonderful,” Alex said. “Let’s not waste time. We don’t want the bride showing up late, do we?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So, how do you want your hair and makeup?”

“Something simple,” Arabelle said flatly. “A messy bun… and light makeup.”

Alex mouthed an “oh,” then began working on her hair. “You have such soft hair. I love it,” he said, still chewing loudly.

“Can you chew gently… or get out?” Arabelle snapped.

“My bad, Miss.” He gave her a playful smile but toned it down.

After nearly an hour, her hair and makeup were complete. Arabelle stared at her reflection, trying to feel even a flicker of happiness. But nothing came.

“Fucking hell… you look gorgeous,” Alex gasped, clapping his hands. 

“Your husband is going to drool when he sees you. Now over to you, Lola, turn her into a masterpiece.”

“Trust me,” Lola said. She turned to the girls. “Bring in the gowns.”

They wheeled in a rack filled with stunning dresses.

“Which would you prefer, Miss Arabelle?” Lola asked.

Arabelle stood, her fingers brushing across the fabrics. Finally, she pointed to a strapless fitted gown adorned with sparkling crystals.

“This one.”

“Perfect,” Lola said. “I actually hoped you’d pick that.”

Once she was dressed, Arabelle looked breathtaking, every inch the perfect bride, except for the sadness in her eyes.

“I want to be alone,” she whispered.

As soon as they left, she reached into the drawer and pulled out the necklace Lucia had given her. Guilt pinched her chest. Their last call had ended terribly… but she only wanted to protect Lucia from her father’s wrath.

“I see you’re ready, figlia (daughter).”

Her father’s voice cut through the silence. She quickly hid the necklace and stood.

“Father,” she said quietly.

“You should be smiling, Arabelle. There will be many guests, and I don’t want you frowning through the ceremony.” His tone was cold. “Let’s go. People are waiting for your arrival.”

They walked out to the black SUV waiting by the entrance.

Arabelle was surprised he chose a church wedding. She expected an outdoor event or a private hall with a priest called in. Knowing Vittorio, he definitely had his reasons.

When they arrived at the church, her father opened the car door and offered his hand.

“Grazie, padre, (thank you father)” she murmured.

Her arrival was announced, and the doors opened. Vittorio held her arm as they walked down the aisle. The church was full, faces she didn't know, people who didn’t know her… or care.

Her gaze drifted across the crowd, searching for the one person she hoped would come.

Lucia wasn’t there.

Her heart shattered.

At the altar stood the man she would spend her life with, Dante Valerio. Dark, tall, intense, annoyingly attractive, though she would never admit it.

When they reached the front, Vittorio placed her hand into Dante’s.

“I’m handing my daughter over to you. Take good care of her, Dante,” he said as if he had ever cared about her.

“You have nothing to worry about, Vittorio,” Dante replied. Then he looked at Arabelle, who was staring at him boldly. “You finally find me attractive, right?”

“I’m just wondering how I’ll manage living with a man as ugly as you,” she replied, rolling her eyes and looking forward.

Dante chuckled and leaned in close.

“You look stunning, by the way.”

“I don’t welcome your compliment,” she muttered which only made him smile.

The ceremony moved swiftly, each word from the priest echoing louder than Arabelle’s heartbeat. She kept her eyes fixed forward, refusing to look at Dante even when he stole glances at her. The church felt suffocating, filled with strangers, power, and expectations she never asked for.

“And now,” the priest announced, “you will exchange your vows.”

Dante turned to her fully, his expression steady, almost soft.

Arabelle stiffened. She didn’t want to do this. Not here. Not like this.

“Repeat after me,” the priest instructed.

Dante spoke first, his voice deep and clear.

“I, Dante Valerio, take you, Arabelle Moretti, to be my lawfully wedded wife, in strength and in weakness, in victory and in war, until death parts us.”

His gaze lingered on her at that final line, as if reminding her that in their world, death was often sooner than later.

Arabelle swallowed hard.

“Your turn, my child,” the priest said gently.

She forced her eyes to Dante’s.

“I, Arabelle Moretti, take you, Dante Valerio, to be my husband.”

The words tasted bitter.

“Until death parts us.”

The priest nodded. “The rings, please.”

A young boy stepped forward with a silver tray. Dante reached for the ring first and took Arabelle’s hand. His touch was warm, steady. Too steady.

He slid the ring onto her finger, holding her hand a second longer than necessary, as if claiming her in front of the entire congregation.

Arabelle snatched her hand back quickly and grabbed the second ring. She didn’t bother looking at him as she shoved it onto his finger.

“Good,” the priest said, smiling awkwardly. “Now, by the power vested in me, I—”

Dante shot him a hard glare.

He paused with a warm chuckle.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

Arabelle’s eyes widened. Kissing Dante was the last thing she wanted. She took a tiny step back, lips parting in protest.

But Dante was faster.

In one smooth motion, he slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her gently, but firmly, against him. Their breath mingled for half a second before he pressed his lips softly to hers.

His kiss wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t rushed.

It was gentle. Warm.

Dangerously tender.

Arabelle froze for a heartbeat, then anger surged.

She bit his lower lip.

Hard.

Dante pulled back slightly, a sharp breath escaping him. A faint smirk curved his mouth, as though he enjoyed her defiance.

The congregation gasped, unsure if what they witnessed was passion, or war.

The priest cleared his throat loudly, pretending not to notice.

“Well… ahem… I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Dante intertwined their fingers and lifted her hand proudly.

“Meet my wife,” he murmured under his breath, eyes burning into hers. “Whether you hate me or not.”

Arabelle glared at him, chest rising and falling in fury.

The reception hall glittered like a palace, crystal chandeliers, violins playing softly. Everyone rose as Arabelle and Dante made their entrance, hand in hand, though her grip was stiff as stone.

Dante leaned in slightly.

“Relax.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she muttered back.

They took their seats at the elevated table, with the Valerios on one side and the Morettis on the other. The atmosphere was a polished mask of civility hiding the tension of two mafia empires forced into union.

Arabelle wasn’t hungry. She pushed food around her plate, ignoring the stares and whispers directed at her, the bride forced into a kingdom she never wanted.

A shrill, overly sweet voice from behind her.

“Well, well… look at the new Mrs. Valerio.”

Arabelle turned slowly.

Standing there was Clarissa Salvatore, daughter of another powerful family. She was stunning, petty, and obnoxiously proud of her long history of trying and failing to get Dante’s attention.

“Clarissa,” Arabelle said with a tight smile. “What do you want?”

“Oh nothing.” Clarissa waved a manicured hand. “I just thought I should congratulate you.”

Her fake smile sharpened.

“After all… some of us thought Dante would choose someone with a bit more class.”

The table went silent.

Arabelle’s jaw clenched. “Walk away.”

Clarissa laughed.

“Aww, sweetie, don’t be sensitive. You’re only here because your father shoved you into this arrangement. Everyone knows Dante deserves better.”

The glass in Arabelle’s hand cracked.

Her temper finally snapped.

She stood up in one sharp motion, grabbing Clarissa by the wrist and twisting it just enough to make the girl gasp.

“You want to talk shit about me at my own wedding?” Arabelle hissed. “Try it again, I dare you.”

“Let me go!” Clarissa squealed, wincing.

Guests began murmuring, heads turning.

Dante turned back immediately to see what was going on. He walked up to them and stood beside her.

Arabelle expected him to scold her, drag her back or tell her to behave like a proper mafia bride like her father would.

He wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her slightly into him, possessive, protective, a warning to anyone watching.

“If you ever disrespect my wife again,” Dante said calmly, staring down at Clarissa, “I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

The room went dead silent.

Clarissa trembled, eyes wide. “D-Dante… I was just—”

“I don’t care.”

His voice dropped, terrifyingly soft.

“She doesn’t like you. I don’t like you. Leave.”

Clarissa stumbled backward and practically ran out of the hall.

Arabelle blinked, still processing what happened.

Dante’s hand slid away from her waist slowly, his fingers brushing her dress.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes never leaving hers.

She stared at him, genuinely shocked.

“You defended me.”

His expression didn’t change.

“You’re my wife. No one gets to disrespect you.”

Her breath caught—just for a moment.