Chapter 38
Lottie
It’s my wedding day…
Which is weird cause I’ve never been proposed to, and I’m already married to someone else.
The irony would almost be funny if it didn’t make me sick.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the girl looking back.
My hair has been twisted and pinned into some elegant shape that doesn’t feel like me, my makeup painted on so perfectly that it looks like a mask.
A veil lies heavy over my shoulders, and the wedding dress—white, lace, sleeveless—fits too tightly across my chest. Every breath hurts, but not as much as my shoulder does.
The joint is swollen, purpled, and angry, my arm nearly useless, but Tracey doesn’t care. She’s standing behind me, forcing the zipper up, her movements brisk and rough. Every tug sends a ripple of pain through my body, but I don’t make a sound.
Not a whimper. Not a cry.
I’ve gone silent again.
It’s safer this way. Lorenzo thinks he’s broken me, and for now, that’s exactly what I want him to believe.
“Hold still,” Tracey mutters, jerking the fabric higher.
I flinch, but she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
Her face is pinched, her hands trembling slightly.
She’s been crying, I think. But not for me.
Never for me. “You could at least pretend to be grateful. This is good for us. Think of the life we’ll both get to live now. ”
I meet her gaze in the mirror, but I don’t speak. I can’t. I just stare at her, hatred in my eyes. Tracey looks away first, just as the door creaks open, and Lorenzo steps inside, immaculate as ever.
Black suit, silver cufflinks, hair slicked back like he’s walking into a boardroom instead of a wedding. He looks at me the way someone looks at a prized horse. “She’s beautiful,” he says to Tracey, as if I’m not standing right here. “Almost perfect. Pity about the bruising.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls something small and metallic from his pocket—a gun. My blood runs cold.
Tracey stiffens. “Lorenzo—”
He holds it out to her, grip-first, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “In case our little bride gets any ideas.”
For a moment, I think she won’t take it. Her fingers twitch. Her throat moves as she swallows. But then she does because she always does. “Make sure she walks down that aisle, Tracey.”
Tracey’s hand shakes as she presses the weapon against my ribs, the cold press of it burning through the fabric of my dress. “Don’t make me use it,” she whispers.
I don’t respond. I just nod once, mechanical, and she exhales in shaky relief.
The house feels like a tomb as they lead me through it.
The air smells like roses and champagne.
I can see the garden through the glass doors…
a vision of beauty that feels obscene. It’s been transformed.
Rows of white chairs line the manicured lawn, draped in ribbons.
The archway at the end of the aisle is covered in ivory roses.
There’s music playing, soft and classical, and people—guests—sitting and smiling as if they’re about to witness something holy.
They have no idea they’re attending a hostage situation dressed as a wedding.
The sun is blinding when I step outside. The heat presses against my skin, thick and suffocating. My bare feet sink slightly into the grass as Tracey nudges me forward, the gun still hidden beneath the bouquet she’s pretending to adjust.
The guests stand.
Lorenzo waits at the end of the aisle, hands clasped in front of him, his expression smug, composed. He looks like a man who’s already won.
Each step feels heavier than the last. My shoulder throbs, my chest feels tight, and the world narrows down to the sound of the strings, the hum of whispers, the pressure of metal against my ribs.
By the time I reach him, my vision’s gone blurry. Lorenzo steps forward, takes my hand, and when I don’t resist, his smile widens.
“See?” he murmurs. “Obedience looks good on you.”
The officiant begins to speak. I don’t hear the words. They melt into a dull drone, like white noise.
“Do you, Lorenzo Valen, take Scarlett Reyes to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” His voice is happy like he’s been waiting to say it all his life.
The officiant turns toward me. “And do you, Scarlett—”
Tracey digs the gun into my side, hard enough to bruise.
The cold press through the lace reminds me of what happens if I don’t play along.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. My throat is dry, the words caught somewhere between terror and defiance.
The officiant hesitates, glancing between us.
The silence stretches for too long. Lorenzo squeezes my fingers, the gesture meant to look tender, but the pressure behind it is a warning.
“I do,” I whisper. The words taste like ash.
Lorenzo’s grin blooms—sharp and victorious.
The officiant nods, smiling as though love is what fills the air, not fear.
“Before we continue, as tradition dictates…” He looks out at the crowd, spreading his arms with a serene smile.
“If anyone here has reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
The garden goes silent. The wind stills. Even the music fades into nothing. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. No one moves. No one speaks.
And then a voice cuts through the quiet. Rough, steady, and unmistakably familiar. “I object…”