Chapter 2
Viviana
O h my God. What the hell is wrong withthoseIrish fuckers?
Choosing me as the future wife—has he lost his mind? He had my sister; why me? My heart slams against my ribs, each beat harder than the last. I can’t catch my breath; the room feels like it’s closing in on me.
Panic grips me tight, my chest heaving with shallow breaths. Am I having a full-on panic attack?
I will kill them in their fucking sleep!
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Silvana approaching. Her face is ghostly pale, and her eyes are wide with disbelief.
“What did you do?” Her voice slices through the chaos, sharp and accusing, like I had any control over this.
“I didn’t do anything!” My voice snaps, barely holding itself together, teetering on the edge of breakin g. “You’re the perfect ones! What the hell happened?”
She rolls her eyes, pacing back and forth. “We were perfect, but I guess he’s probably more into…” her hand traces me up and down, “…whatever mess you are.”
I glare at her. “What the hell does that even mean? Are you saying I’m… not enough?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Viviana. Maybe he saw someone he could just get into bed easily.”
“Silvana!” snaps a sharp voice—our father’s. His fingers scrub his temples as if he’s been through this argument a thousand times. His frustration and helplessness couldn’t be more obvious.
Her gaze flicks between me and our father, searching for answers. But he just stands there, silent, a look of shock plastered on his face. The disbelief in his eyes mirrors my own.
There’s no way in hell I’m marrying a Callaghan. Those three are everything I despise: control, power, and violence. And me? I’m nothing like the type Declan would want.
Doesn’t he prefer women who are polished, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sweet little things that make him look good? What’s he going to do with someone like me? And even worse—what the hell am I going to do at that mansion in the middle of nowhere?
“Viviana,” my father’s voice is low, almost pleading. “We don’t have a choice. You don’t have a choice. It’s either this or we lose everything.”
And I’m supposed to care about that? He’s never cared about me. I was never the pretty, immaculate daughter he wanted. I’ve always been the black sheep. Instead of learning which fork to use at fancy dinners, I dyed my hair black and flaunted tattoos.
I’m not wife material—I can barely handle my shit, let alone deal with someone like Declan Callaghan.
My father leaves, and my sisters stand staring at me like I’m to blame. It’s their fault, not mine! I was myself as always! And from what I know, men like Declan run in the other direction near women like me.
“Here,” my father comes in again, handing me a bunch of papers. “It’s not only the material things, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says, his voice softening unnaturally.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I try to hold it together, but the weight of everything is crushing me. I stare at the contract, the words blurring. If I run, if I refuse, if I say no at the altar, it’ll cost us our lives.
The Callaghans don’t play. Even if my family treats me like shit, I can’t let that happen. No matter how much they’ve hurt me, ignored me, or pushed me aside since Mom died… they’re still my family. And I’d never be able to live with myself if I was the reason they got killed.
Hours pass, my eyes locked on the ceiling, waiting for a black hole to open and swallow me whole. I let out a long, shaky sigh, realizing that will never happen because life isn’t that easy. I start to feel my pulse slowly settle into a more controlled rhythm. I don’t have a choice. The wedding is in a week at the Callaghan estate, and I’ll be ready. I’ll survive this, just like I’ve survived everything else.
It’s morning, and my head feels like a drummer has taken up residence there. I take a deep breath, feeling a little calmer, and pick up my computer. So, I’m getting married, and the logical thing to do is go on Pinterest and search for inspiration… on how to kill without being caught. Wonder if they have stuff like that!
I scroll through a bunch of amazing wedding dresses—beautiful, but they only make me feel worse than I already do.
I was never the type to dream about getting married, but if it ever happened, I had an idea of what I’d wear. I’ve always loved the thought of a gorgeous princess ballgown in pearl white. But there’s no way I’m wearing that for this fake wedding.
My phone dings.
A message from my father. He doesn’t even have the guts to face me. I read it and snarl. Great. So the Callaghans are in charge of all the wedding arrangements, and it’s going to take place at their estate.
Amazing.
No need to keep searching Pinterest, but something catches my eye—a dress. Mermaid style, beautiful, sexy as hell. This is it!
I google bridal shops and call several; they all give me the same answer: either they don’t have anything like the dress I want, or they don’t have the time to make alterations. I’m getting stressed and seriously annoyed.
When the next shop answers, I make a split-second decision and tell them I’m the future wife of Declan Callaghan. There’s a pause on the other end before the woman speaks again.
“Are you free tomorrow at nine in the morning?” she asks.
“Of course,” I reply, feeling triumphant. At least their fucking name is good for something.
I’m standing in front of the mirror at the bridal shop, seeing my dress for the first time. It still needs some changes, but it’s exactly what I imagined. My hands shake with excitement, ice cold to the touch. My throat burns every time I try to speak. It feels like my words might shatter into pieces if I push them out too fast.
“He’s going to kill you,” Selma says, her voice low but direct. She’s the only person I trust—my best friend since… forever.
“Which one?” I try to chuckle, but it comes out as a shaky breath. “My future husband or my father?”
“Both, girl!” Selma’s amused tone works its magic, and despite everything, I feel a flicker of calm. “You could do worse, though. Declan Callaghan is hot as sin, and let’s be real, the brothers? All of them are walking danger signs wrapped in sex appeal.” She winks at me, grinning.
If this were any other situation, I’d laugh and agree. She’s not wrong. Declan is a walking powerhouse: tall, muscular, and covered in tattoos, with dark hair and intense brown eyes.
Every move he makes radiates control and raw intensity. That man is the devil in a suit. And that’s the problem—he’s the devil.
The Callaghans are undoubtedly the hottest men I’ve ever laid eyes on, but they’re also the most dangerous. Everyone in this town fears them. People stay out of their way, and here I am, heading straight to the wolf’s lair.
“This is just what I wanted,” I tell the seamstress, my gaze fixed on the mirror. She managed a miracle—not only did she have a dress strikingly similar to what I envisioned, but she was also able to make all the alterations before the wedding.
At least I’ll have this one thing—my dream dress—for what’s sure to be a hellish wedding.
“Now, the flowers and the veil, and I’m done.” I glance at Selma, waiting for her nod of approval.
She stands up, her eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curling into a menacing smile. “He’s going to lose it,” she teases, giving my ass a playful slap.
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me, echoing from somewhere deep inside—a rare moment of release in this nightmare. It feels good, even if just for a second.
I have zero control over this damn wedding. Everything’s being orchestrated by the Callaghans: their property, their décor, their music, and their food. The only thing they let me choose is my wedding dress.
I know the colour scheme: reds and whites. Fine by me. The ceremony will be held in their grand salon, and the reception will be in the ballroom. I’ve seen Declan’s mansion. It’s massive, like something out of a gothic novel. Each brother has his floor, and there’s even a fully equipped medical wing. Who the hell has a medical wing in their house? How messed up is that?
Standing in my dress, my reflection stares back at me: powerful, in control. But beneath the facade, my mind races. What kind of life am I about to walk into? Will I have my room, or will Declan demand that I share his bed? The thought sends a tremor through me, and my stomach churns.
Selma’s voice cuts through my spiral, yanking me back to the present as we drive home. “Will your father walk you down the aisle?” she asks, her tone curious but tinged with concern.
“Of course not,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’ll walk alone.” I pause, glancing at her. “No… I’ll walk with you.”
“It will be my honour,” she grins, throwing me a proud glance. She doesn’t know the full extent of what I have planned. But I do. If all goes as it should, I’ll make sure that on my wedding day, I control the narrative—not Declan, not my father.
As I step into the room where I’m supposed to get ready, I’m struck by how beautiful it is—but also by how wrong it feels. The space is too clean and too elegant.
The white walls gleam under the soft light spilling through the large windows, and the faint scent of roses lingers in the air. Of course, even my prep room is drenched in roses.
Dark oak furniture contrasts with delicate floral touches, an odd blend of the mansion’s imposing style. This isn’t just a random room; it’s been carefully prepared, made to look like some fairytale dream of what a bride’s room should be.
And, of course, it’s completely different from my style. But I already knew that would happen. The Callaghans don’t seem like the type to go for a Tim Burton theme.
Still, Declan made more of an effort than I expected. I don’t think anyone else would have bothered to create this illusion of beauty for such an ugly day. If this were my father, I’d probably be signing the wedding papers in his office, whiskey in hand. But Declan went to
all this trouble—not for me, but to show everyone, every leader, that this is the wedding of the century for the Irish Consortium.
I glance around. The flower arrangements on the vanity and the plush chair tucked neatly under the desk feel too thoughtful and meticulous. They scream control. This is a cage wrapped in a pretty bow.
The makeup artist and hairdresser are already waiting, their eager hands ready to transform me into the bride everyone expects to see at the ceremony.
My sisters breeze in with their fake smiles and phoney concerns. Their dresses are pristine in red and white tones, their hair styled in flawless updos that look like they’ve been glued in place.
They pretend to care, but their eyes can’t hide the jealousy. They’re still pissed, blaming me for whatever happened that night. I was just being myself, the same detached person I always am at those gatherings. It’s on them ! They’re the ones who messed up!
I refuse to let them see the dress. They glance around, trying to sneak a peek, but it’s safely hidden in the bathroom.
Then my father enters, dressed in an expensive navy suit, muttering about how proud he is—like that holds any weight.
Liar.
He’s never been proud of me, not once. This is all for what the Callaghan promised him: power and protection. He doesn’t care about me or my future as long as he gets what he wants. He’d trade me to the wolves if it meant saving his skin.
After their empty words and hollow compliments fill the room, they leave. My father, with his forced pride, and my sisters, with their shallow smiles, vanish through the door. Silence falls. Finally, I can breathe.
I sit in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as the makeup artist begins her work. She knows exactly what I want.
The pale foundation smooths over my skin, making me look ghostly. It’s intentional. I’ve done everything I can to look less like my sisters—their golden tans and perfect beauty disgust me.
She paints my eyes with heavy, smoky black shadows, dark and intense, like a storm brewing inside me. My lips are stained deep red, bold and defiant, more war paint than wedding makeup. They’re striking against the pale backdrop of my face.
My jet-black hair falls in soft waves down my back, with a single intricate braid woven through it. The braid contrasts against the smoothness of the rest, and I know it’ll hold firm no matter what happens today.
I look at my reflection, I feel ready for battle—a dark queen preparing to face her executioner.
Selma bursts through the door, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Got it!” she exclaims, locking the door behind her and holding up my bouquet of roses. “Let’s do this. Everyone’s in the ceremony room.”
Together, we wrestled me into the dress—my masterpiece. It is black as night, clinging to every curve. The mermaid silhouette draws attention to all the right places. The long, dramatic veil trails behind me, and the bouquet of black roses in my hands completes the look.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a funeral. And that’s exactly how I’m treating it.
Selma, stunning in her black gown, adjusts my veil. She’s my only bridesmaid by choice. My father expected my sisters to stand beside me, but I’d rather walk down the aisle naked than have them next to me.
A knock at the door sends my heart into overdrive. “Miss Morelli, it’s time,” the assistant calls from the other side.
I take one last look in the mirror, but the sight of my reflection blurs as tears well in my eyes. Not because of fear or nerves, those I’ve already accepted, but because my mom isn’t here. If she was, things would be different. She’d have been my anchor in this storm.
Warm hands wrap around my waist, grounding me. “I love you,” Selma whispers, her voice soft and steady. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
I hug her back, a shaky breath leaving my lips as I push the emotions down. When the door swings open, the hallway is empty except for Declan’s guards. Their shocked expressions are priceless, exactly what I wanted.
As Selma and I walk through, I can feel the weight of the upcoming ceremony pressing down on me with every step.
The mansion is just as suffocating as I remember, every inch of it screaming wealth and control. The polished dark wood floors reflect the dim glow from the chandeliers overhead, casting long shadows against the deep oak walls.
Everything feels too heavy, too formal. Even the air smells rich, like old money and the faintest hint of expensive cologne.
My heels click against the floor, echoing down the wide corridor lined with crimson curtains that sweep dramatically from floor to ceiling.
Selma walks beside me, her face set in determination, holding my veil like we’re marching toward some twisted battle. I catch sight of the beautiful gardens and lake through the windows, but even the beautiful sight doesn’t calm the nerves crawling up my spine.
Flowers, red and white roses, lilies, and carnations are everywhere. Tall vases overflowing with them sit like silent sentries along the walls, the scent cloying as it mixes with the polish of the wood.
Even the chairs lining the hallway are tied with red velvet ribbons and white satin bows, like everything in this damn place has to match.
When we get to the doors of the ceremony room, they loom in front of me, impossibly tall, polished to a gleaming perfection that makes me want to smear my hands down them, just to mess up their pristine surface. I take a breath as the doors swing open.
Selma positions herself behind me, holding the veil, her confident energy giving me strength. “We’ve got this,” she murmurs, and I nod, exhaling the tension in my chest. The music starts, a classical piece I don’t recognize. If it were up to me, I’d be walking to Metallica.
The doors to the ceremony room creak open slowly, and I take my first step inside; it’s like stepping into a scene from a nightmare dressed in luxury.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting shards of light over everything below. The walls, dark and rich like the rest of the mansion, are draped in a heavy red fabric that falls in carefully placed folds.
Roses dominate the room, towering arrangements of them flanking the aisle, nestled in marble vases with delicate gold detailing. The contrast of the blood-red against the stark white petals feels like a punch to the gut. It’s beautiful in the coldest, most formal way, just like everything the Callaghans stand for.
I swallow hard, the knot tightening in my stomach.
The collective gasp from the crowd is so loud as I start to walk in that it nearly drowns out the music.
“Oh my God,” someone breathes.
“What is she wearing?” another voice whispers, horrified.
“Is she insane?” a third mutter, scandalised.
I smile to myself, finally feeling right at home in the chaos. Making people uncomfortable and shocking them is what I do best. But as I lift my gaze, my confidence falters for a split second.
There he is, standing at the altar. Declan Callaghan. Tall and imposing, in a tailored black suit, his white shirt crisp beneath the black tie. His dark eyes bore into me, narrowed, assessing.
My pulse quickens, and I silently thank the layers of makeup hiding the flush creeping up my neck.
Shit.