Chapter 19 Viviana #2
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure the other thing out.”
That should be a valid reason to freak out, but my obliterated virginity is the last thing on my mind. I am as far from inexperienced as can be.
“My marriage felt like a battlefield, Viv,” she says wistfully.
“It almost cost me the love of my life. It took his unconditional love, seeing him in a coma where I couldn’t reach him, to understand my trauma.
While you’re not a fighter, you’re a people pleaser.
Another coping mechanism courtesy of our obtuse parents. ”
She takes my hand, and we hold on to each other. “The right partners help us stop following our default program.”
Incapable of forming words, I nod, elated that my sister stopped fighting and let herself feel, trust, and heal.
I think of Tristan. I never felt the need to please him by pretending.
Shutting my eyes, I will my brain to give me a break. I can’t think about him constantly, or I’ll lose my damn mind.
“I’ve dug every piece of information I could get on your fiancé,” she sighs, so much care and worry etched in her eyes. “If I could, I’d ship you far away so that no one could ever discover your whereabouts. But knowing you, you’d miss us even though none of us have been worthy of your goodness.”
Tears fall freely, and I don’t hide them. Neither does she.
“He’s vicious, cunning. Everyone in the underworld is wary of him.
They call him the strategist. He always follows a plan, and no one knows they’re being played, just that they are.
The alliance with the Syndicate is more for show because he makes his own rules.
He’s too powerful to get rid of. And he’s fraternizing with the West Coast, our biggest enemies. ”
“Lucky me, huh?”
“I’ve heard he has no true loyalty. No one he loves,” she whispers, as if he’s a demon that could materialize any moment and drag me to hell with him.
Sad. I can’t believe that’s what I am thinking, hearing all these hidden warnings when I should worry about the implications, what being married to him means to me.
“I’ll deal with him,” I say, infusing more hope than belief.
She sighs. “He’s not a child you can teach.”
“All men carry a child within them.”
We burst into a peal of laughter, remaining silent for a few minutes.
She squeezes my hand like she doesn’t want to let me go. “You’re going to live in a new city where the Syndicate’s influence is nonexistent but improved via family ties. If you need me, I’ll always be there, Viv. Always.”
I wrap my arms around her, drawing strength from her. Her nearness and unwavering support soothe me.
“We were the sacrificial lambs. Our daughters will choose.”
We lift our hands to intertwine our fingers in a pinky promise, helping each other up.
Hearing a commotion from downstairs, we brush our tears away.
As Chiara unlocks the door, my phone vibrates on my vanity table with a text, and I pick it up.
I can’t wait to see you, mo run.
I feel my brows furrow, a heavy feeling setting in the pit of my stomach, upsetting it. With shaky fingers, I shut it off and place it face down. It must be my nerves making me wary, I tell myself. It’s not like he will burst through the door and rescue me.
I am not at the dorm anymore.
He does not know where I live.
He can’t reach me even if he wanted to. The knowledge both calms and saddens me.
Once the beauty team arrives, one takes over my hair, styling it in long curls that flow down my back, the other gives me a mani and a pedi in a soft pink, then moves to my face, dabbing some purple eyeshadow and a rosy-nude lipstick.
I smile at my reflection. They did an amazing job enhancing my best features, from my light green eyes to my full lips.
Thanking them, they leave us.
Alone with my sister, I shrug. “Showtime.”
“You look fantastic,” Chiara says before jutting her chin toward the golden dress my mother chose for me. “You planning on wearing that?”
I shake my head, and she disappears down the hall, returning with three dresses: one red, one silver, and a bold black one.
All three look amazing, but my interest reverts to the black one. I want to wear a “don’t fuck with me” look.
She nudges my side. “Set the scene. It’s your first move. Make it exceptional.”
I pick the black dress, feeling empowered. It’s a mini A-line dress with a plunging neckline. I slip into black sandals, the straps coiling around my calves. Fitting, as I’d rather tame snakes than let one bite me.
Chiara nods, approving of my choice, then dresses in the red dress.
I smile, remembering she chose that color for her engagement as well.
She brushes her hand over the fabric, grinning. “A reminder of who he’s married to.”
I arch a brow, saying with absolute certainty. “I don’t think Cato could ever forget that.”
We giggle, but then the atmosphere changes, growing heavier with implications.
“Ready?” she asks, the corners of her mouth pulling down.
“As ready as I can be,” I sigh.
At the top of the stairs, Chiara moves first, walking toward her husband.
The reality crashes onto me, freezing me on the spot.
The foyer buzzes with people, from the men of the Syndicate and their wives to the extended family on my side and some unfamiliar faces, all displaying tense postures as if anticipating an attack.
All eyes turn to me, except for the man who keeps his back to me. That must be him.
My heart picks up, threatening to shoot out of my chest. The assured way he carries himself reminds me of my Tristan.
I shut my eyes for a moment, begging my brain to stop thinking about him for a few seconds so I can pull off this shitshow.
My palms turn clammy. I am afraid my hand is going to slip off the rail, and I will plummet to my death.
Then everything happens in slow motion. He turns to me as if giving me time to accept the impending shock. Only for shock to morph into betrayal.
Tristan. My Tristan.
He’s my future husband?
I gulp, willing to dislodge the lump in my throat not to suffocate from distress.
No, this is my mind playing tricks on me by placing the face of the man I love on this stranger so I can cope with my imminent marriage.
I blink and blink some more, but the face never switches to another one. Shock melts into dread and then acceptance.
I knew he was dangerous, but I never imagined how far his cruelty could run.
There’s an array of emotions flashing in his eyes, but I shut my heart to the silent plea etched there. The betrayal unfolds into instant heartache, promising to shut down my system. It’s a wonder I can stand when all I desire is to crawl into a hole and disappear for good.
I bleed out even though no one is privy to my insides being butchered in this exact second by the man whom I trusted with my life, offered him my body, and gave him my heart. Only for him to throw my gifts back at my feet—used, abused, dead.
I can’t even afford to tend to my wounds in peace. Wounds that will probably never heal. Everyone expects an engagement to happen, and so does he, the fucking traitor who caused me the greatest pain, one I doubt I will overcome.
Holding his gaze, I wish to become blind, so I never have to see those treacherous brown eyes ever again.
We have an entire conversation like this—silent but poignant.
“I will never forgive you.”
“I know, but we’ll see.”
He looks so damn handsome in his tailored suit, dressed to a T for the occasion. Just like the devil, he makes a dramatic entrance, loving the spotlight. But he seduced me once, took advantage of my desire to explore and willingness to sin, but I’ve seen his true face.
Behind the shiny exterior and the beauty of a fallen angel lives a veritable monster.
I am paying the price for trusting the devil by falling. Every second, I will hit rock bottom and shatter into pieces, cutting myself open on the sharp edges of every wish I ever made.
While hurt holds me in an unyielding grip, choking my life essence, it makes me want to rise one more time, like a phoenix from its ashes, and drag him down with me, incinerate him in the inferno of my agony.
Willing my face to remain impassive demands every bit of acting skill.
I force back the tears as I face the man I love, serving me a dish of deception I might asphyxiate on. The irony isn’t lost on me. The one who played a role her entire life has been played so damn well, I would award him an Oscar before bashing him to death with it.
I hear my name being called as everyone smiles, more or less fake, a matter of pleasantry.
My ears ring with the echo of treachery; the blow deafens me. I grip the rail to support myself, reminding myself I won’t break. I refuse to.
He moves toward the base of the staircase, and I swallow. The acidic aftertaste of betrayal boils my insides, dissolving my love into hatred as I take a step toward ruin.
I glance down at my dress.
I guess I made the right choice.
I am attending the funeral of our love.