Chapter 33
The morning sun slinks in like a predator, casting long, golden fingers across the marble floor of the bridal suite. It shouldn't be this bright. It shouldn't be this warm. It feels like mockery—like the universe is smiling while I’m prepped for a new prison.
The suite is opulent in that garish, overcompensating way the Kavanaghs are known for. Gilded mirrors. Velvet drapes. A chaise lounge no one actually sits on. Every inch screams power and wealth, a performance for the outside world.
Three women flit around me like I’m some kind of sacred object.
One is curling my hair into soft waves that cascade over my shoulders.
Another dusts powder across my cheekbones like she’s brushing a canvas.
The third stands by the rack where the dress hangs, inspecting every pearl as if one might suddenly fall out of place.
They move efficiently, methodically—silent, obedient. Not once do they meet my eyes.
I hate them.
Not for what they’re doing, but for what they’re part of. For their silence. For being the hands that smooth me into this perfect bridal costume while the woman underneath it screams.
The scent of jasmine clings to my robe. It was chosen for me—like everything else. My breakfast. My routine. My life. They’ve fed me like a pet these past days. Washed my clothes, brushed my hair, and replaced my shoes without ever uttering a single word.
Today, they laid a white lace bra and thong on the vanity, as if I’m supposed to wear it for the man who plans to defile me tonight.
I left it where it was, untouched, a silent refusal.
Instead, I pulled on black—silk against my skin like a deliberate act of defiance in a world that wants me soft and compliant.
The dress waits in the corner, pristine and sickening. Pearls, ivory satin, delicate straps. It should be something beautiful. Something a girl dreams of. But when I look at it, all I see is a cage stitched with thread.
And I’m walking toward that cage like a lamb.
The tightness in my chest grows with every second. I haven’t slept. I’ve barely eaten. My nerves buzz like wasps under my skin, the weight of what’s coming pressing heavier and heavier until I think my ribcage might crack under it.
It’s not just that I don’t want to marry Anthony.
It’s that marrying him feels like being sentenced to a life of hell.
A sharp knock at the door draws all three women to stillness. They freeze, then glance at one another as if unsure who should answer. Then the door opens without permission.
Anthony Falco walks into the room.
The man oozes smug entitlement in his fitted black tuxedo and polished shoes. His blond hair is slicked back with a precision that makes him look more plastic than princely. His eyes sweep the room before they land on me, and his smile curves into something too sharp to be kind.
“Out,” he says, barely raising his voice.
The attendants hesitate.
“I said out.”
They scatter quickly, heads down, slipping past him like rats fleeing a room. The door clicks shut behind them, and then it’s just him and me.
I pull my robe tighter and stand.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, tone like ice.
“I don’t care about traditions. I make my own rules, sweetheart.”
He walks into my space, his eyes dragging down the length of me with arrogance. “You clean up nice.”
“Leave.”
He walks past the dress, brushing the sleeve with his fingers. “Shame to cover up all that fire with satin. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy unwrapping you later.”
My stomach rolls.
He steps closer, and I back away until my spine meets the wall. “Don’t touch me.”
Anthony’s smile deepens, cruel and oily. “Still playing the proud princess? Come on, Zara. You knew this day was coming.”
“I never agreed to this.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a Kavanagh woman. You do what you’re told.”
I lunge for the other side of the room, but he’s faster. He catches my wrist, yanking me back. The motion jerks me off balance, and I stumble into him.
His hands are hot, greedy, already pawing at the knot of my robe. I slap him hard across the face, and the sound echoes through the suite.
He stills. Then he laughs. “God, I love it when you fight.”
“You disgust me,” I breathe, shoving against his chest.
He pins me to the wall, the edge of a gilded mirror digging into my shoulder. His voice is a whisper near my ear, sticky and vile. “You think I care? You’ll be mine by nightfall. And every time you tell me no, it’s just going to make fucking you so much sweeter.”
I kick at his shin, but he doesn’t flinch.
“You think you’re still in control?” he hisses. “You’re not. You’re just a pawn in your daddy’s little world. But me? I’m the king on the other side. And tonight, you become my wife.”
His hand slides up my thigh, and I shove with everything I have. “Get off me!”
He finally releases me, chuckling as he steps back. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts, rage and revulsion twisting in my gut.
He fixes his cufflinks like nothing happened. “You’ll come around. They always do.”
I grab a vase from the side table and hurl it. It shatters against the wall behind him.
Anthony’s grin fades, just for a second.
Then he points to the dress. “Put it on. Leave your whorish attitude behind when you walk to me at the church. Don’t be a fucking embarrassment.”
And with that, he’s gone.
I crumple to the floor, shaking, the shards of the broken vase glittering like little pieces of myself scattered across the tile.
The heat in my chest builds until it bursts behind my eyes.
I will not be his. Not now. Not ever.