All Chapters of Unholy Matrimony: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

DominikShe’s the wrong thing to appear in a place like this. Bright, alive, fury wrapped in thin skin. The scream she lets loose when she sees what I’m doing is music in a key I didn’t know I liked. It fractures the air, makes the men around me jerk, and it makes my accountant freeze with his head bowed and his tears shivering on his cheeks like a man trying to hold together wet paper.When she steps between him and me, she does it with ridiculous, childish bravery. She calls him Dad as if it keeps the safety of the word alive. It makes the hunter in me lean forward with interest.I’m not sentimental. I don’t believe in knives held for the sake of theatre. I believe in outcomes. I believe in leverage. I believe in a man’s ability to set the terms and enforce them. That’s how empires are kept whole. By contracts and consequences, by having the stomach to do what the timid cannot.When she follows me into the tiny office at the back of the warehouse and I shut the door, the light in t

DominikThe car door opens and she steps out with a suitcase small enough to mock me. Exhaustion draped over her like a cloak. Dark circles bruise the delicate skin under her eyes. Her lids droop with every blink. A long night has carved her down to something thin and brittle, like she might snap under the weight of her own bones.It makes my jaw clench.“Didn’t sleep?” I ask, though the answer is obvious. I want to hear her admit it.She doesn’t. Her lips press together in a thin, stubborn line. Let her believe she can use silence as rebellion. For now.“You’ll take better care of yourself.” My voice is clipped and quiet. I don’t raise it. I very rarely do. There’s no need. “I won’t tolerate you abusing your body. It belongs to me.”Her head lifts as if she might argue, but she thinks better of it. The muscle in her jaw ticks instead. She thinks silence will save her. It won’t.The house rises behind me, tall windows and stone walls gleaming in the morning sun. It isn’t just a house

EveIn the top corner of my bedroom, there’s a small black bead where wall meets ceiling. In the opposite corner, another. I imagine tiny red dots blinking inside their throats like quiet, satisfied hearts. I lift my chin and stare straight into one. “I hope you’re enjoying the show,” I say to the air, voice hoarse with sleep. “Get my best angle, okay?”I shower because not showering is a petty rebellion without payoff for me. The bathroom is gorgeous of course. Clawfoot tub, twin marble sinks, towels folded into perfect stacks like they auditioned for the job. I brush my teeth too hard and spit with more satisfaction than is sane. The girl in the mirror looks a little like me after a car crash. Eyes too bright, jaw set, mouth trying to decide between a line and a circle.I pull on jeans and a white tee, with sneakers I used to love. They squeak on the marble like small animals begging for mercy. I leave my hair down in wilful chaos. When I open the double doors of the suite, two m

Eve Luciana brings the battlefield to my door at nine sharp.Instead of knives, tape measures. Instead of shackles, silk. A garment rack glides in like a silver executioner, trailed by two seamstresses and a woman with a tablet who introduces herself as Claudia and never looks up from her digital gallows. “We will begin with foundation garments,” Claudia says, eyes on the screen. “Your measurements from the boutique are incomplete.”“Let me guess.” I paste on a smile that shows my teeth. “You’ll remedy that.”“Of course,” she says, in the tone of someone commenting on the weather.I strip to my underwear without bothering to hide and get on the stool the seamstress set in the center of the room.The mirror reflects a stranger. I’m pale from too little sleep, hair a mess of curls I’ve made no effort to tame, lips red from me constantly biting them.Tape snakes around my ribs, numbers are written down. Fingers skim the curve of my hipbone with indifferent professionalism.“Turn, plea

EveThe noise of the reception still rings in my ears, but it dies a quick death when we pull into the driveway. No champagne chatter, no orchestra swelling. The mansion greets us with silence so deep it feels staged, as if the walls were ordered to hold their breath.My pulse trips against my ribs and I straighten my spine, hiding every tell I can, because fear in front of him feels like blood in the water when surrounded by sharks.At the foot of the marble steps, Dominik doesn’t hesitate. He bends, scoops me into his arms, and lifts me clean off the ground without any effort. My gasp tangles in my throat, and his mouth twists into that faint, cold amusement he wears so often.“Welcome home, Mrs. Grimaldi,” he murmurs, carrying me across the threshold.The words settle on my skin like shackles, heavier than the ring already burning on my finger.Inside, the hush presses tighter. My heels dangle uselessly, my hands clutching at the air because I refuse to wrap them around his neck.