Chapter 27
Hollow
THE REQUIEM | Past
There is something humiliating about realizing your life has been reduced to two choices.
It’s neither good nor bad, nor right and wrong. Just survival and suffering. And sometimes they are the same thing.
I stand in the middle of the living room of the house Zagreus proudly told me he bought as a wedding gift.
A wedding gift.
The irony is almost enough to make me laugh.
The house is beautiful. It’s on a cliff, with a view of the sea, the skies, and the horizon. It’s just like I once told him. Fairytale and dreamy. Except for the man standing in front of me.
The ceiling is high. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling. Fresh flowers decorate every corner. Jasmine.
At least they used to be my favorite. Now they remind me of funerals. Everything reminds me of funerals.
My Father is dead.
The thought arrives with the same brutality every single time, as if my mind refuses to accept it and insists on grieving him all over again.
My Father is dead.
The church burned.
And I am standing here in a white wedding dress, and it’s a mockery. White is supposed to symbolize purity, new beginnings, and hope. But this dress feels more like a surrender flag.
Though it’s lace and silk. Finest fabric.
Across from me stands Zagreus. Dressed entirely in black.
The colour suits him. It has always made him handsome. Because black is the colour of mourning.
And I have been mourning him for weeks. The man I loved is gone. Maybe he never existed at all. Maybe I invented him. Maybe I loved a version of him that was never real.
My gaze drifts toward the priest. The terror in his eyes is almost comical. If I didn’t feel so hollow inside, I might have laughed. He looks less like a priest and more like a hostage being forced to perform his own execution.
Considering the armed guards surrounding him, he probably isn’t entirely wrong.
Several of Zagreus’s men stand around the room. The air in the room is closer to a standoff than a wedding.
Perhaps that’s exactly what it is.
I look toward my Mother, and a fresh ache spreads through my chest.
She is dressed beautifully. Her hair is pinned back. The dress fits her perfectly. Yet none of that can hide the grief in her eyes. Or the fear. Especially not the fear.
A guard stands several feet away, and I know there are more. I begged Zagreus to remove them. He refused. Claimed it was for protection.
I stopped believing his definitions of words a long time ago. Protection.
Love.
Trust.
They mean something entirely different when they come from him.
My Mother catches my gaze. Tears shimmer in her eyes. My own throat tightens.
I wonder if my Father received a funeral.
The thought hits me so hard that I nearly lose my breath. Was there a burial?
Were there flowers? Was there a prayer?
Did anyone say goodbye? Or did the flames consume everything before anyone had a chance?
I don’t know.
And perhaps that is what hurts most. Not being there.
Not getting the chance. Not saying goodbye.
A thousand memories threaten to overwhelm me as my gaze returns to Zagreus.
He hasn’t stopped looking at me, not since I walked down the stairs. The intensity of it makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it hurts because once upon a time, I used to love the way he looked at me. Back when I thought I was precious to him.
Back when I thought I was safe. Now I know better.
The funny thing is that people will look at this situation and assume I chose him. That I forgave him. That I couldn’t stay away. That this is some grand love story.
It isn’t.
Love had nothing to do with this decision. Fear did. Reality did. The impossible weight of responsibility did. Because after the screaming stopped. After the crying stopped. After the hatred settled into something cold and permanent… I was forced to face the facts.
The Cosa Nostra had gone feral. Every alliance my Father had built was collapsing. Every enemy he had ever made smelled blood in the water. There was a bounty on Zagreus’s head.
There were whispers of war. Whispers of revenge. Whispers of people disappearing. And in the middle of it all stood my Mother.
A woman who had already lost her husband and could very easily become collateral damage in someone else’s vendetta.
I wanted to refuse Zagreus. God knows I wanted to.
I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to choose my pride, my anger, my grief, but pride doesn’t keep people alive. Anger doesn’t protect loved ones. And grief certainly doesn’t stop bullets. So I made a choice.
I chose this because every path in front of me led to suffering. This was the path that gave my Mother the highest chance of surviving.
That realization is perhaps the cruelest wound of all.
Because it means Zagreus won.
And as I stand here in white while he stands there in black, surrounded by armed men and broken promises, this isn’t a wedding, but a transaction of my freedom for my Mother’s life. And I hate him for making me pay the price.
The priest clears his throat. His gaze darts nervously between Zagreus, the armed men surrounding the room, and me. Then he swallows hard and opens the book.
The ceremony itself becomes a blur. Words.
Promises. Vows.
Things that once meant something. Things that now feel hollow.
I can barely hear any of it. My eyes remain fixed on a spot beyond the window. Beyond the walls. Beyond this prison dressed as a wedding.
Now and then I feel Zagreus staring at me. I refuse to look back. If I do, I might remember the man I thought he was. And I cannot afford that weakness anymore.
“Do you take this man to be your husband?”
For one insane moment, I consider saying no. I imagine the chaos that would follow.
Then I look at my Mother. Her eyes are red from crying. Fear shadows every line on her face. The answer was never really mine to give. I lost that choice a long time ago.
“I do.”
The priest releases a breath. Then he turns toward Zagreus. “And do you take this woman to be your wife?”
For the first time since the ceremony began, I glance at him.
His gaze is already on me as though nothing else in the room exists.
His eyes hold mine captive as he grabs my trembling hand and slips the ring onto my finger. A dazzling star-shaped pink diamond ring, radiating luxury and enchantment.
I swallow. His throat works around emotions he cannot afford to show. A man holding himself together through sheer force of will.
“I do.”
The muscles in his jaw flex, his hands remain at his sides, fisted so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. As though touching me now would break whatever fragile control he has left.
The priest looks relieved that neither of us has caused a scene.
“Then by the authority vested in me…” Another nervous glance at the armed guards. “…I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Husband. Wife.
A lifetime reduced to two words.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The room falls silent as I don’t move. Neither does Zagreus.
For a long moment, we simply stare at each other. Strangers wearing the faces of former lovers.
I expect him to claim what he believes is his, to grab my face, to force the performance; instead, he takes a slow step forward until he is standing close enough for me to feel the warmth of him.
Close enough to remember. Close enough to hate.
His eyes search mine, looking for something.
Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. His fists tighten further as, with visible restraint, he leans down.
His mouth brushes the corner of mine with a featherlight touch. Gone almost before it happens. A kiss that feels less like a victory and more like an apology.
When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before he tears it away. As though looking too long is dangerous.
As though wanting too much is dangerous.
There is no cheering, just the sound of my own ragged breathing. And the crushing realization that I have just become Mrs. Zagreus Vitale.
The wife of the man I love. The wife of the man I hate.
And those two truths hurt exactly the same.