Chapter 2 #2
He hardly reacts. “You know your aunt won’t allow that,” he replies, emotionless. “Or the dresses for your damigelle d’onore.”
I stare at him. “I don’t want fourteen bridesmaids in matching satin, sobbing through a live string quartet like it’s a fucking soap opera. Give me one. Maybe two. That’s it.”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Of course you can’t,” I snap. “No one in this house promises anything unless it’s tied in blood and laced with power.”
God, fuck this family. Fuck this life.
I exhale a long, hollow breath before walking to the desk.
I stay silent. Quickly snatch the pen from its spot, my fingers shaking with anger and restraint. I hold the edge of the contract, sign my name across the line, and drop the pen onto his desk.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of another glance.
If he wants me gone, then I’m gone.
Might as well start now.
It starts with gold.
Fucking everywhere.
Gold trim embellishes the floors. Gold details adorn the napkins.
Gold stitching in the white satin that drapes across fourteen pairs of matching heels.
I’m standing in a room so bright it blinds me.
The chandelier above probably costs more than most people’s homes, and the carpet beneath my feet is the kind you’re not supposed to step on, only admire from a distance.
Too bad I’ve already thought about throwing up all over it.
It’s so over-the-top that it makes you want to scream or set something on fire.
The room is packed, filled with perfume, squeals, and forced cheer.
Fourteen women in blush satin hover around me, fluttering like butterflies in heat.
Their dresses cling tightly to their breasts, with slits high enough to reveal regret with every step.
They’re already crying, and no one’s even said “I do” yet.
I stand in the middle, unmoving. A statue carved out of dread and sequins. They circle around me, cooing voices and fake tears, dabbing at mascara that hasn’t even smudged yet. My aunt beams from the corner, soaking it all in like this is her coronation.
The dress irritates my skin. It’s a damn joke.
White. Puffy. Aggressively virginal. The sleeves puff out like marshmallows glued to my shoulders. The skirt is wide enough to land a goddamn helicopter. And the beading—Jesus Christ. It sparkles across my chest like I’m about to time-travel straight to a tacky Vegas wedding in 1987.
My aunt wanted purity, grace, and Serrano tradition.
What she has is a girl in a dress she didn’t pick, wrapped in lies she didn’t create, waiting to be walked down the aisle toward a man she’s never even kissed.
The veil is pushed into my curls. Someone giggles behind me. Another one sobs. I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, throat tight, chest hollow.
It’s all too loud.
I shift my weight and bump into a tower of champagne flutes. One wobbles. I don’t move to stop it. I let it fall, hoping the whole fucking table goes down with it.
“Isabella,” one of the bridesmaids says softly, eyes already wet, voice coated in fake sweetness, “you look so beautiful.”
I give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes at all. “I look fucking ridiculous.”
They laugh as if I had told a joke instead of the truth.
“I need a moment,” I say.
My aunt’s mouth tightens. “Darling, they’re ready for you in five,” she says gently. “You don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”
I blink once, feeling the heat crawl up my spine. “I need a minute.”
She hesitates. “But—”
“I. Need. A. Fucking. Minute.”
The room falls silent.
Fourteen women freeze in place—blush satin, mascara, and uncertainty. I watch them exchange glances, unsure of who should speak or cry next. No one does.
My Aunt finally steps back, muttering something about nerves and pressure and how every bride feels this way. As if this is normal. As if being pushed into a life you didn’t choose is just a phase.
I turn toward the door. “Out.”
My aunt hesitates, taking a step forward. “Isabella—”
“I’m not going to faint,” I say without looking at her. “I just need to breathe without someone powdering my collarbone.”
That’s it. She relaxes for a moment, offers me a gentle smile, and nods.
One by one, they shuffle out. Heels click. Dresses whisper. Perfume, hairspray, and nervous chatter trail behind them.
As soon as the last heel clicks down the hall, I turn the lock on the door.
I walk back across the room, and the dress drags across the floor with all the grace of a damn snowplough. Layers of satin and tulle whisper and hiss.
I stop in front of the mirror.
What stares back at me makes me want to laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s fucking tragic.
I reach up, fingers finding the pins jammed into my scalp. I rip them out one by one. My curls fall heavily over my shoulders. The veil slips off and drops to the ground, forgotten.
I swiftly pull off the white dress. The sleeves tear as I yank them down.
Good. Let them rip. Let someone cry over the damage when they find the Serrano bride discarded her handcrafted, overpriced bridal fantasy on the floor like trash.
It is trash. And I’m finished pretending it ever meant anything else.
I turn and cross to the armoire in the corner where my real dress is waiting. Hidden in a black garment bag, I smuggled it in behind my aunt’s back with all the grace of a woman preparing for war. I unzip it slowly.
It’s black. Sleek. Made from fabric that whispers sin and warns don’t fuck with me.
I bought it online, straight from the funeral section, because nothing says “I do” like mourning the girl I used to be.
Grief, it turns out, has better taste than the lace-and-pearl bullshit tradition keeps trying to force on us.
I step into the dress. Slide it up slowly. It clings in all the right places—my hips, my waist, the curve of my spine—tight enough to make a priest stutter, sharp enough to make a grown man flinch. The neckline is clean. No glitter. No frills. No stitched promises of purity.
Just fuck-you black. Unapologetic and divine.
The zipper hums up my back, smooth as sin. My spine straightens. My shoulders are square. I turn to the mirror and stare her down.
And there she is.
Not some blushing bride waiting to be walked down the aisle like it’s a fairytale.
This is the girl who’ll burn the fucking chapel down if anyone even so much as breathes the wrong way.
Now that’s a damn bride worth remembering.
Not the kind to blink prettily beneath a veil and nod along while her life is plotted out by power-hungry men in tailored suits.
She will not be controlled.
Not by her father.
And definitely not by Lorenzo De Luca.