A wedding without vows

Seraphina’s POV

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to get to the fitting right about now.”

I look up from the magazine I’d grabbed off the dining table on my way out, after breakfast, my eyes boring into the face of the mid-twenties maid in aprons. 

“What fitting?” I demanded, completely clueless. 

“For the..wedding dress?” She answered, the slight cock of her brows indicating her uncertainty and confusion. 

I furrow my brows in confusion and curiosity, slapping the magazine shut. “I never gave out my measurements, so,” I folded my arms, “how did you get it?”

“U-uhm,” the maid stuttered, licking my lips, “I don’t really know, ma’am.” 

And she really seems like she doesn’t. 

“It’s just..” she continued, “Mr. Lazaro said to inform you when it’s time for the fitting. I’m just doing as he said.”

Lazaro did?

Did he make me a dress without my permission?

Sighing in disbelief, I throw my head backwards, squeezing my eyes shut. 

Just why in the world is this happening? Is this all because I’m hated by my father?

“Uhm, ma’am?”

I flicked my eyes open, glaring at the maid. 

“The seamstress is waiting at the guesthouse already, and she seems to be in quite a hurry,” she adds in a meek tone, and I let out a loud, frustrated huff. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mumble, rising to my feet. “I didn’t ask her here, did I?”

I follow the maid into the rose-scented guesthouse that was a few steps away from the main building, reluctantly, and sulking. Counting every second, and minute, and hour, until I meet De Luca with the insufferable smirk, and tell him what a desperate bastard he is. 

I walk in behind the maid, moments later, to find a woman that seemed to be around my age, pacing about in obvious agitation, and glancing at her wristwatch every now and then. 

Just as her eyes fall on us across the wide space, she rushes over, a forced smile on her face. 

“Mrs. De Luca, thank Go—“

“Seraphina Alvarez, please,” I interrupted bluntly. “Or just, Seraphina…if you may,” I flash her a tight smile, enjoying the way the smile fades from her face. 

“Ms…Alvarez,” she resumes moments later, narrowing her eyes on me, and I roll my eyes upwards, wondering why she didn’t just stick to Seraphina, “so I’ve been waiting for quite some time now, and unfortunately, I don’t have all day. So can we like, do this real quick so I could get going?”

I scoff, turning to face her tummy and folding my arms across my chest. “I didn’t ask you to make me a dress, did I?”

She cocks a brow in confusion. “Mr. Lazaro asked me to. He came up with some excuse about how you weren’t available to come yourself, so he had to place the order in your  stead?”

I watch her silently, fuming. “And my measurement? How did you get your hands on that?”

She seems flabbergasted. 

“Or did you make the dress with just some random measurements?”

“Mr. Lazaro provided your measurements, Ms. Alvarez,” she replies in a stunned voice. “Now please, can we get to fitting?”

I glare at her for a few moments more, then I let out a huge sigh and roll my eyes backwards. “The only reason I’m doing this now,” I begin, stepping forward, “is because of the time and effort you must have probably put into the dress. So,” I examine the dress closely, running my fingertips across the sewn-in pearls, “I’ll try it on.”

“Oh,” the designer claps her palms together, “thank you so much, Ms. Alvarez. Come. Please.”

**************

I suck in my breath, holding it deep, as my eyes roam the entire vertical space, from where I stood at the entrance of the garden.

A bunch of Blood lilies clutched in my fingers. 

“You better put a smile on that darned face of yours, Seraphina,” my father’s voice booms from beside me, and I swallow a lump. “You can’t mess this up for us. In any way.”

“I’m well aware, father,” I mutter back, and he slides me a malicious glance that tells me he understood the sarcasm in my tone just fine.

“Good,” he returns. “Keep your head up. Smile. Make us proud.”

Yes, father. That would be much better than seeing my face every other day, wouldn’t it?

Just then, the accordion strikes a melodramatic note that leaves me in further turmoil, ascending into a sad melody. 

I watch from the corner of my eyes, in horror and repulsion, and rage, as my father plasters a bashful grin on his face, sticking out his arm invitingly. 

Saying a fervent prayer for perseverance and self-control in my mind, and taking in several deep breaths, I slink my arm into his, and we begin the procession up to where Lazaro stood in the middle of the neon-lighted dance floor, watching me closely. 

My father waving and curtsying where he needed to, and nudging me to wear a smile as well. 

And as we glide past the throng of familiar and unfamiliar faces on either side of the aisle, waving and smiling at us, gushing, cheering, and just staring blankly, I suddenly want to turn on my heels and flee. 

But I can’t do that…not when I’m walking down the aisle on my father’s arm. 

All these people…every single one of them, they would be witnesses to this union between Lazaro De Luca, and I. 

This is really happening…

I finally allow myself to look at him, where he stands on the dance floor, fingers shoved into his pockets, after looking everywhere but at him, despite knowing his gaze burns into me really hot. 

And as my eyes fall on his frame, they first notice his ripped arms through the brown tux, and I swallow hard. 

Then, slowly, as my father leads me closer, and closer, I pull my gaze up to his face, defiance burning bright in my eyes. 

He looks good, drop-dead gorgeous. 

His black hair slicked back and ruffled in a rugged style, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. 

Finally a few feet away from him, my father leaves me with a dead kiss on my chin and walks back to his seat, and I turn fully to face my nemesis.

“Well,” Lazaro steps close seconds later, the same insufferable smirk on his lips, “this is our first dance, why don’t we make the most of it?”

He tugs the bouquet out of my fingers, and tosses it on an empty seat a few feet away. 

“I’m not interested in doing this bullshit with you,” I say, taking a few steps back from him, and he immediately follows.

“We can’t let the music go to waste, plus,” he grabs my wrist, pulling me close, “there are people watching.”

I glare up at him as he begins to sway our bodies gently to the slow rhythm, his large hands splayed across the small of my back. 

We both say nothing at first, then I clear my throat quietly. 

“You want me that bad, don’t you?”

He stares down at me, saying nothing, his expression blank. 

“I mean,” I press on in frustration, “who said you could ask for my dress to be made, in my stead? Are you desperate to have me as yours?”

He quirks a brow, and that is all I get. 

Sighing, I tear my wrist away from his grip, and thankfully, just then, the guest host’s voice filtered through the speakers. 

“Now, folks,” he begins, “it’s time to eat the cake of love.”

A loud cheer goes up amongst the crowd, and walking up to me, the host gestures me towards the massive cake, Lazaro watching every movement silently. 

“So, here, pick up the knife,” the host instructed, and I did just that. 

“Now, are you ready to feed your husband, Lazaro De Luca this cake, as his wife, and family, which symbolizes your loyalty and submi—“

A loud slashing sound interrupts the host, and after the silence of a nanosecond passes, a collective gasp goes up in the air. 

I stand with the bloodied knife in my hand, staring down at the gaping wound in my palm that now pumped blood so efficiently. 

Then, slowly, I bring my gaze up to glare at Lazaro, who watches me with a certain darkness in his eyes. A new interest. 

Is he…enjoying this?

“I’m not your wife, Lazaro De Luca,” I declare in a biting voice, my tone ice-cold. “I’d rather slash my palms than slice this so-called celebratory cake.”

I fling the knife to the ground, and just then, a scream ring out. 

“My God! Someone, get a doctor! Fast! She’s bleeding.”

But Lazaro hardly flinches. Seeing all that blood dripping onto my white dress. 

Instead, he gazes at me in wonder, mesmerized. 

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