Chapter 5 #3
“I will break your body, your spirit, and your soul until you beg me for the mercy you stole from me.” His bloodshot eyes bored into mine, burning with years of bitterness. “This marriage is your sentence.”
His bleeding hand trembled, though whether from rage or blood loss, I couldn’t tell.
“And I swear on my blood... on my name... on everything I am...” His voice dropped into a deadly whisper. “I will enjoy every second of your suffering.”
My chest tightened.
I kept my face carefully blank, refusing to let him see how deeply his words cut.
It hurt.
More than anything ever had.
The man I’d loved for as long as I could remember was standing across from me at our wedding, not promising to love or cherish me...
But swearing to make me suffer.
And the cruelest part was that he believed I deserved it.
Romeo slowly curled his wounded hand into a fist.
A sickening wet sound echoed through the sanctuary as fresh blood squeezed between his fingers, dripping steadily onto the marble beneath his polished shoes.
He turned his head toward the priest, contempt flashing across his face.
“You’ve wasted enough of my time. Finish the ceremony.”
He spoke with the calm finality of a man whose orders were law.
The elderly priest visibly recoiled. His trembling fingers nearly lost their grip on the microphone, which struck the marble stand with a sharp metallic clang before he managed to catch it again.
For several long seconds, the old man’s lips parted without producing a sound.
His carefully prepared sermon had vanished beneath the weight of Romeo’s fury.
I couldn’t blame him.
I felt just as shattered.
I stood rooted to the altar, unable to move.
The humiliation of being degraded at the altar before everyone burned deeper than I could bear. A tear stung the corner of my eye, but I forced it back.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting to regain control.
No.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
I had spent my entire life learning never to cry before an audience. Bratva daughters weren’t raised to show weakness. We smiled through betrayal, stood through grief, and bled without complaint.
Yet today...
Today, I couldn’t stop the tears.
Humiliation had a way of cutting deeper than any knife ever could.
I felt every stare inside the church.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed several guests subtly lowering their phones after recording what had happened.
Of course they had.
By tonight, the footage would spread through encrypted Bratva group chats and private Irish syndicate circles.
By tomorrow, everyone in our world would know that my husband had vowed hatred—not love—at the altar.
The realization hurt even more.
The priest finally found his voice.
His words blurred together into little more than meaningless sounds.
His words faded into a dull hum, each one blurring into the next until they became nothing more than meaningless noise.
Inside, my thoughts unraveled.
Standing at the altar beside the man who had just vowed to make my life a living hell, I couldn’t stop wondering what the next two years would bring.
This marriage wasn’t built on love or even tolerance—it was a contract.
Two years under the same roof, enduring each other until we both became eligible to claim our grandparents’ inheritance.
Seven hundred and thirty days.
Seven hundred and thirty days trapped with a man who looked at me as though my existence alone offended him.
A man who had just promised, in front of everyone, that he would make me suffer.
My stomach churned.
What if his hatred didn’t end with cruel words and icy silence?
What if, one day, making me miserable wasn’t enough?
What if he decided that my death would bring him more satisfaction than my suffering?
For the first time since agreeing to this arrangement, fear drowned out every other emotion.
Maybe I should have walked away.
Maybe losing the inheritance would have been a far smaller price to pay.
Because as I stood there at the altar, listening to my husband swear on his blood and his name that he would break my body, my spirit, and my soul until I begged him for the mercy he believed I had stolen from him, a terrifying thought settled deep in my chest.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just signed a marriage certificate.
I’d signed my own death warrant.
The ceremony ended without applause.
Guests rose slowly from their pews.
Conversations resumed in cautious whispers.
No one knew whether to offer congratulations or condolences.
Romeo didn’t spare me another glance.
He turned sharply, his bloodstained hand hanging at his side as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
“Keegan,” he said without slowing his stride.
The Irish underboss stepped forward immediately.
“Take her to the estate and put her in the guest wing.”
Only then did Romeo speak directly to me.
“That’s where you’ll stay. Like the unwanted guest you are.” His voice dropped, cold and venomous. “I have far more important matters to attend to than pretending to tolerate my new wife on our wedding night.”
Not once did he look back.
His polished shoes echoed against the stone floor as he strode confidently down the aisle, every step carrying him farther away from me.
His men fell into formation without a word, surrounding him like a moving wall of black suits and unwavering loyalty.
Within seconds, they disappeared through the towering church doors.
A gust of cold air swept through the sanctuary in their wake, leaving behind an unsettling silence—and me, abandoned at the altar by the man who had become my husband only moments ago.