Chapter 3
Declan
T he ceremony room is a battlefield dressed in white and red, every seat filled with witnesses to what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life as if this is anything more than a fucking transaction—a merging of power draped in a thin veil of tradition.I don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage anymore. I believe in control. And this marriage will solidify mine.
Kian leans in, muttering under his breath, “You reckon she’ll show?”
“She’ll show,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the grand doors at the end of the aisle. Viviana isn’t the type to run, no matter how much she hates this. She’s too proud, too defiant. And she bloody well knows what’s at stake.
Connor stands on my other side, his posture relaxed, though I see the tension in his jaw. “If she pulls something, are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?”
I smirk, not bothering to hide the anticipation building inside me. “I’m counting on it.”
The low hum of conversation among the guests suddenly drops to a murmur, then silence, as the music starts and the doors creak open. Every head turns, and there she is.
Viviana.
I’d prepared for her to make a scene, maybe even try to humiliate me. But this? This is something else. She stands there, framed by the massive doors, in a dress as black as night. A bride in mourning. A woman walking to her funeral. That little vixen.
Gasps and whispers ripple through the guests, the shock palpable. But all I can do is smile—a slow, satisfied smile, part admiration, part triumph. This is a move meant to shock, to rebel, to make it clear she’s doing this on her terms, not mine.
Perfect.
She starts down the aisle, her steps measured and deliberate, her eyes locked on me. That smile on her lips says, You may think you’ve won, but this is far from over.
Kian chuckles softly beside me. “Got to hand it to her. She knows how to make a fucking entrance.”
“Yeah,” Connor adds, his voice low, “but she also looks like she’s about to bury you instead of marry you.”
“Let her try,” I mutter, my gaze never leaving hers.
Viviana reaches the front, her head held high, defiance radiating from every inch of her. She stands there with her best friend, Selma Costa Nova, strong and more than a little pissed off.
Selma moves to her side, giving the boys and me a death glare before turning away as Kian meets her gaze.
Good.
The priest clears his throat, clearly unsettled by the tension crackling in the air. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”
His words fade into the background as Viviana and I lock our eyes. The room, the people, the ceremony—it all blurs into insignificance. This is about us: power, control, and a battle that has only just begun.
As the priest drones on, I reach out and take her hand. The tension beneath her skin is palpable, and her anger is barely held in check. Her grip is firm—a silent declaration of war.
And I can’t wait to fight it.
The vows are spoken, and the rings are exchanged. I know one thing for sure: this isn’t just about taming her. This is about proving to her—and everyone—that no matter how hard she fights me, I’ll always be one step ahead. I will control her. Bend her. I’ll be the one to finally have a hand on Viviana Morelli.
When the priest declares us husband and wife, I don’t hesitate. I pull her close, gripping her waist firmly to remind her who’s in charge and kiss her. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t sweet.
It’s a clash of wills, a battle for dominance played out in front of every single person in this room. My lips claim hers, my tongue forcing its way into her mouth. She smells of jasmine and spice, intoxicating and infuriating all at once.
She doesn’t yield—not in the kiss, not in the way her body remains stiff against mine. But she doesn’t pull away, either.
When I release her, her eyes blaze with fire, her breath quick and shallow. That smirk is still there.
I think I’m going to hate that bloody smirk of hers.
Flynn Brady, my best friend since high school, is the first to stand and applaud, a grin splitting his face.
“You’ll pay for this,” she whispers, her voice low enough for only me to hear.
I smile, dark and full of promise. “Bring it, wife,” I murmur against her ear.
We turn to face the crowd, their applause loud and hollow in my ears.
I know Viviana. She won’t back down. She wouldn’t let something as simple as a kiss throw her off her game. In fact, I expect her to retaliate, and that’s exactly what makes this game worth playing. That’s why I chose her—she’ll fight me to the end of time.
As we leave for a separate room where the notary and lawyers wait, her grip is strong, her hands icy cold. She’s nervous. Good.
That makes her more dangerous, and that’s exactly what I want. I enjoy playing with fire, and she’s the flames.
Viviana signs the papers first, officially becoming my wife, taking the Callaghan name. When it’s my turn, I bend over to sign.
“Signing your death sentence, husband?” she whispers, amusement dripping from her tone, her damn smirk back in place.
“Mine or yours, wife? You’re outnumbered in this house,” I remind her.
“Am I, though?” she counters, her gaze sliding toward the lake outside the window.
What the hell did she do?
I shake my head, taking her hand and pressing hard as I lead her to the reception area.
The atmosphere shifts immediately. The space is a masterpiece of opulence, every detail meticulously curated to showcase power and wealth.
Viviana and that dress is a walking danger sign. She’s not the type of woman I’d usually lose time with—not that she isn’t stunning. Quite the contrary. She’s beautiful, but her gothic style, tattoos, and pale, vampire-like skin aren’t my type. And yet, seeing her in that dress… Let’s just say my cock twitched the moment I saw her.
Guests float around the room, some still in shock, others in awe. Whispers grow louder—a mix of admiration and speculation. I relish the attention, and by the slight tilt of her lips, so does she.
The reception is in full swing, a lavish affair designed to make people forget what this marriage truly is. Deals are being made behind smiles, and alliances are solidified with handshakes and toasts.
But none of that interests me.
My eyes remain locked on Viviana as she sweeps through the room, every ounce of fury wrapped in that tight black dress. That fucking dress…
Her father struts beside her, clearly enjoying the attention. But Viviana? She’s seething. And that only makes her all the more captivating.
Flynn leans against the wall next to me, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the scene unfold with his usual amused detachment.
Connor stands on my other side, his posture casual, but I can see the tension in his shoulders—the way his eyes track Viviana’s every move.
“Think she’s planning her next move?” Flynn asks, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving her.
I smirk, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “I’d be disappointed if she isn’t.”
Viviana grabs a glass of champagne, her eyes meeting mine across the room. There’s something dangerous in her gaze—a spark that says she’s already plotting. She doesn’t just glance at me; she dissects me, analysing every expression, every shift of weight, as if she’s searching for a weakness to exploit.
Good luck with that, firecracker.
With a smirk that could be mistaken for sweetness if you didn’t know better, she raises her glass toward us. It’s a challenge—pure and simple. A silent declaration that she won’t be playing the obedient wife.
I raise my glass in response, meeting her challenge head-on. She’ll know I’m ready for whatever she’s planning.
Connor chuckles softly, shaking his head. “She’s not going to make this easy for you.”
“I don’t want easy,” I reply, my voice low and dark with anticipation. “Easy is boring.”
Kian’s grin widens. “Just don’t come crying to us when she sets the mansion on fire.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Fuck, I think she actually might try.” I chuckle darkly.
Viviana turns away, dismissing us with a flick of her hair as she walks toward Selma. The move is calculated—meant to show she’s not intimidated, not the least bit concerned about what the three of us might do.
The two throwback shots like water; that damn vixen is going to get drunk before the wedding ends. But I can see the tension in her shoulders—the way her grip tightens on the glass just a fraction too hard. She’s pissed. Really pissed.
As she and Selma laugh and whisper into each other’s ears, I take another sip of my drink, savouring the burn as it slides down my throat. This is going to be fun watching her try to outmanoeuvre me, piss me off, and prove she’s unafraid.
“Let her have her fun tonight,” I say, my voice a low rumble.
Kian and Connor nod, but I can see them—they are not taking any chances. Every guard is in place, every security camera is monitored, and Kian doesn’t take his eyes off Viviana. He’s waiting for the shoe to drop.
Giovanni circles the room, basking in his newfound power among the Irish Consortium. Fucking eejit. As if anyone here would actually consider making deals with him.
Three Irish families are present: the Bradys chatting with the Keefes near the bar and the Flanaghans—those drunk bastards—eyeing the Morelli sisters like prey. Good luck with that.
The party starts winding down. Viviana left the room with Selma a while ago, and according to one of the guards, the two are back in the prep room.
“I bet she’s preparing something.” I move closer to the bar, my hand clenching the glass in anticipation. Connor and Kian exchange looks.
“Fuck me, don’t say that,” Connor sighs, the panic clear in his eyes. He’s too innocent when it comes to women—especially women like Viviana.
“I’ll take that bet,” Kian chuckles, clinking his glass against mine.
And then she re-enters the room, and all bets are off.
Gone is the dramatic black wedding dress, replaced by something so tight, so revealing, it’s like she’s daring the entire room to look at her. And they do. Every single person—man and woman alike—can’t tear their eyes away.
Neither can I. That damn woman got a rise out of me—not the one she expected, but my cock has raised, that’s for sure.
Connor nudges my arm, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re going to let her get away with that?”
I don’t respond immediately, too focused on how the dress clings to every curve. The corset pushes her breasts up way too much for my liking, and the back dips low enough to heat my blood.
I’m close to snapping—close to dragging her out of this party. No wife of mine dresses like that in front of drunk bastards.
“Dec,” Connor cuts through my thoughts, tilting his head toward one of the employees—a young guy who should know better—eyeing Viviana like she’s a feast. My temper flares.
Viviana notices the way my face twists, so she decides to play her game. She follows him out of the room, her hips swaying, glancing back just once to make sure I’m watching.
Of course, I am. In my mind, I’m already breaking every finger of that bastard if he so much as brushes against her.
“She isn’t going to fuck the employee, right?” Kian’s voice slices through my thoughts, laced with disbelief and concern.
“No,” I growl, setting down my drink with enough force to nearly crack the glass. “But she wants me to think she will.”
Without another word, I push off the bar and follow them, my footsteps echoing down the darken hallway. This is a challenge to my authority—a test to see how far she can push me before I put her in her place. She wants to make me lose my shit.
And even knowing that’s her plan, I’ll still kill the motherfucker if he touches a strand of her hair. Fake wedding or not, she’s still my fucking wife.
Up ahead, I spot them. The employee nervously glances over his shoulder as Viviana leans in, her voice low and sultry. She isn’t touching him—she won’t—but still. Fuck it.
She’s playing with fire, and she knows it. So do I.
In a few long strides, I close the distance. My hand catches her wrist before she can make another move. The employee steps back, eyes wide with fear and confusion, but I barely notice him. My focus is entirely on her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.
She looks up at me, olive eyes flashing with defiance, a flicker of satisfaction dancing there. She got the reaction she wanted. My grip tightens on her wrist as I push her against the wall, clawing at her hips with enough force to leave a mark. She doesn’t flinch.
“I’m just having a conversation,” she says innocently. However, the smirk tugging at her lips says otherwise. “Or is that not allowed anymore, husband ?”
I step closer, pinning her to the wall, letting her feel the heat of my anger. “Go on, play your little games, firecracker, but don’t forget who you’re dealing with. You’re mine now. No one else lays a fucking finger on you. No one even looks your way without my say-so.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn and defiant, both infuriating and exciting me. “I never noticed your accent was so strong. Does being upset make it come out more?”
Is it bad to lock up your wife in the basement on the wedding night?
I lean in, my voice dropping to a low whisper, thick with warning. “Careful now, Viviana. Push me again, and you’ll see just how far I’ll go to prove a point. I’m not your fuckin’ father.”
I press her harder against the wall, letting her feel every inch of me—the strength she’s testing.
But that damn smirk stays on her face, her eyes locked on mine, daring me, defiant as ever. Bloody hell.
She leans closer, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, “Careful, Declan. You seem to be enjoying this more than I do.”
Before I can respond, she pulls back, slipping out of my grasp with a sly smile. Her gaze flicks to the terrified employee now plastered against the wall, then back to me. Her eyes drop pointedly to the bulge in my suit pants, and there it is—that goddamn smirk of hers.
I’m going to need to have a serious talk with my cock after this.
“See you later, baby,” she says sweetly, her tone dripping with mockery as she saunters past me, leaving the hallway—and the party—without so much as a backward glance.
I stand there for a moment, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. She’s good at this—better than I expected.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I snarl at the employee, who looks like he’s on the verge of a stroke.
“Need cuffs for the wedding night?” Flynn Brady’s voice cuts through the tension as he strides into the hallway with a chuckle. “Or maybe a bulletproof vest?”
“Very fucking funny,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. I wanted this, right?