Chapter 1 #2
In a hopeless attempt to steady my nerves, I draw a deep breath.
The assistant adjusts my veil one last time. Too bad it’s not black.
Slowly, right behind Mrs. Henderson, I make my way down the stairs.
Outside the door to the room where I’m getting married, my father is waiting.
He offers his arm, and I suppose I have no choice but to tuck mine inside his. As if suspecting I might flee too, he tightens his grip to the point I wince. “Father!”
Not relenting, he leans close. “You’d better not piss Vale off. ”
I shouldn’t be surprised that I receive no encouragement or other pretty words.
Too soon, we’re standing at the top of the aisle, and I stare down the impossibly long stretch of cream carpet that leads to my future. And the man I’m about to trick.
Next to him is Brennan. How rich that a criminal who looks like a thug is Vale’s best man.
This can’t be real, and I force back a hysterical laugh.
Please God, let me wake up and find this has been nothing but a nightmare. I want to get back to my cat, my books, and planning for the fall semester. The life I had yesterday.
Instead, the quartet transitions seamlessly into “Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.” I’m one minute closer to meeting my doom.
The moment I take my first step, the guests rise as one, and then they turn to face me, all eyes on me, tracking my every movement.
I’m a fraud: exposed, vulnerable, certain that at any moment someone will cry out that I’m not Margaux, that the Davenports are trying to pull off an unthinkable deception.
I miss a step when I see Dante Moretti—the Mafia family’s underboss—standing right in front of me, just a few rows back, his expression unreadable. But he nods at my father and offers a chilling smile.
Dear, dear Lord. Is my future groom beholden to the mob?
My father’s grip becomes excruciatingly painful.
“Walk.”
My steps are short and uncertain as I move forward.
The man I don’t want to marry is in front of the altar, facing me, wearing a tailored black tuxedo that highlights his broad shoulders and commanding presence.
His posture is relaxed but authoritative, every inch an asshole billionaire mogul with the political aspirations that I’m supposed to help him achieve .
Beside him, Brennan is a hulking presence. His matching tux doesn’t take away from the furrows between his brows. He’s scanning the crowd, watching, assessing.
The way they stand shoulder to shoulder speaks of years of absolute trust. But what kind of man trusts a criminal?
Oh, yes, I think wildly. The one I’m supposed to sleep with. The one I’m supposed to produce children with.
A chill chases through me, made worse by the way Dorian sweeps his gaze over me.
Even through the veil, his scrutiny hits me like a physical weight. As he studies me, his eyes narrow, as if he’s cataloging every inch. Does he suspect? Can he tell just from my walk, my posture, my frame, that I’m not his intended bride?
My veil has turned everything into a soft-focus haze of ivory, but I can still make out the angular planes of his face, the calculating intelligence in his steel-gray eyes.
The music abruptly stops, and the silence crashes into me.
How have I gotten this far?
With a smile meant for the photographer who signals that she’s satisfied with the shot, my father steps aside and sits in a chair next to my mother.
Dorian moves into position without saying a word.
Thank God.
Because if I had to respond, I’m sure he’d discover my deception.
The minister’s voice breaks through the quiet.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God and these witnesses, to join Dorian Vale and Margaux Davenport in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church.” He pauses, his next words heavy with tradition.
“ If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
My pulse thunders in my ears.
Please. Please. Someone say something. Anything.
I wish I could turn to look at our guests and beg someone to put a stop to the madness. But no one speaks. Of course they don’t. Everyone who matters knows exactly why this marriage is happening, and those who don’t know wouldn’t dare interfere with a Vale wedding.
Next to me, Dorian’s presence is suffocating.
His scent—clean, rich, something dark and expensive that reminds me of aged leather and dark woods—curls around me like a trap.
He towers over me, and this close I can see the subtle tension in his jaw, as if he’s determined to make sure nothing stops this ceremony.
Since the makeshift chapel remains silent, the minister goes on, his voice echoing through the space.
“Dorian, will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?
Will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live? ”
Dorian’s voice resonates with absolute certainty, a deep baritone that sends a shockwave down my spine. “I will.”
Through my gauzy world, I watch as his mouth curves into what people might think is a smile. But I see the wickedness in the motion.
He reaches for my hand, and I try not to flinch at the contact.
I despise this man and the way he bargained for my sister’s hand in marriage.
His skin is warm, his grip firm—too firm. Possessive. A silent warning .
“Margaux.” The minister turns to me, and my heart stutters.
This is real. This is happening.
“Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honor, and obey him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”
Obey?
This is craziness. No one has that word included in their vows anymore. No doubt he requested it.
What an absolute monster.
When I hesitate, Dorian’s fingers tighten around mine, and I feel the weight of his insistence.
No wonder Margaux ran.
My throat closes. The room spins. If I were braver, I’d run too. Right now, down the aisle, past the guests, past the millionaires, billionaires, and Mafiosos, past all of it. But everything hangs on this moment. On this one word.
I catch the slight lift at the corner of Dorian’s mouth—he’s enjoying this. Did he know, somehow, how much that single word would revolt Margaux?
“Miss Davenport?” The minister prompts gently, but there’s tension in his voice now. He can sense my hesitation. Can Dorian?
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Dorian’s strokes his thumb across my knuckles—a gesture that might seem comforting to observers, but I feel the steel behind it. The command.
“I—” My voice cracks. I swallow hard and force the words out. “I will.”
But the minister isn’t done. He leads us through the longer vows, and again that word appears, heavy and final: “…to love, honor, and obey, till death do us part. ”
Dorian’s voice wraps around his vows like silk over steel, each word precise and measured. When it’s my turn, I repeat them woodenly, my voice barely a whisper. The word obey burns like ashes on my tongue.
The entire time, I’m achingly aware of his grip on my hand, of how close he stands, of the subtle ways his body shifts with each response. Is he noting the tremor in my voice? The way it differs from Margaux’s confident soprano? Can he tell, even now, that something isn’t right?
The rings come next, presented on a silk pillow by my young cousin. Dorian’s platinum band slides easily onto his finger, but mine is slightly too big, another reminder that I’m an afterthought. And there’s no engagement ring.
“Where is it?” he snaps quietly.
Oh my God. He’d insisted that Margaux wear the ridiculous, oversize, gaudy diamond every day. A symbol of his wealth and ownership? How could I have not thought about that until now?
“Margaux?” he prompts in an annoyed whisper.
I whisper, “My jewelry box for safe keeping.”
With a scowl that leaves no doubt about his displeasure, he slips the simple wedding band into place, marking me as his property.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
My knees go weak.
No one has saved me.
Finally my husband leans in close, so close that he fills my vision and overwhelms me with his spicy, masculine scent. Motions deliberate, he reaches for my veil.
The moment of truth.
Then he lifts it.
“What in the actual fuck?”