Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Ayanna
“Do you think I’m the groom?” The man with light, almost white-blond hair and sky-blue eyes smirks in a way that makes me blush out of embarrassment.
“You wish, hun, but you’re marrying the other brother.
The less fun one.” The brow with a scar across its arch lifts, and his grin widens, only making me feel more like a fool.
I can’t believe it. The bastard didn’t even have enough courtesy to grace me with his presence. Instead, he sent his brother.
My cheeks burn, turning the deepest shade of crimson, I’m sure.
I snag a black velvet document file from the man’s hand and turn on my heel to sit by the oak desk in my father’s office.
I don’t even raise my gaze to avoid the stares of witnesses to my humiliation as I scroll through the pages of the marriage agreement.
In two weeks, precisely on November twenty-first, I’m turning twenty-two. Apparently, the universe—or rather, my parents—decided that the perfect birthday gift would be marrying a man I have never met in person.
No, sadly, not my dream Prince Charming I was looking forward to marrying my entire life.
On the contrary. It’s a marriage of convenience with a Norwegian mafia heir, Aric Vold. Needless to say, I had no right of choice in this matter.
But the real plot twist? I’m a princess.
A niece to the king of Monsera—a small but influential kingdom.
A member of royalty…and I have never, ever, not in my wildest dreams thought I’d have to marry a criminal.
I mean…how twisted is that? All so my uncle can gain even more influence by securing my father a place in some secretive society no one dares to speak of.
Though it won’t ever be revealed to the people of Monsera.
All I know is that this marriage will grant my father entry into that mysterious organization—one that apparently pulls the strings on a global scale.
Why me and not the king’s daughter? Because the society in question is made up of criminals.
Gangsters. Mafia men. The king’s daughter couldn’t be tied to something like that.
But me? They’ll lie to the people of Monsera, saying I married a foreigner and left the country, and no one will ask questions. After all, I’m just the king’s niece.
Resting my head on the fingers that dig into my temples, I skim through the contract, page by page. Not something you’d think you’d be doing two weeks prior to your wedding, especially if you were a hopeless romantic like me, who dreamed of a once-in-a-lifetime fairy-tale love.
“Are you done, Princess Ayanna?” The impatient request of Mr. Zhang, the lawyer hired by my future husband’s family as he introduced himself, jolts me back from my inner monologue.
“No,” I reply harshly, though with a hint of sarcasm as I turn the page.
Involuntarily, my gaze wanders fleetingly through my father’s sophisticated office, landing on the younger brother of the heir I’m marrying, whose lips curl up in an amused smirk.
I still can’t get over the fact that he came here on behalf of my supposed fiancé to witness me sign the marriage agreement, and not my husband-to-be himself.
What a disregard. It was one of the agreement rules; both parties were to sign it in the presence of a lawyer and two witnesses, one from each family.
My husband-to-be obviously got to sign it first, and my father was the witness representing our family, as he said, “It would be inappropriate for the bride herself to go.” In other words, I am a woman, and a woman doesn’t get involved in…
well, anything. Not in my father’s world, at least.
Nevertheless, I expected him to come in person so we could’ve had at least a small chat before we said the famous “I do,” but apparently, I was the only one who thought meeting before vowing eternity might be worth the effort.
A rush of anger bolts through me.
Doesn’t he have even an ounce of curiosity to meet his wife-to-be?
I try to focus on the contract, but it isn’t until the last page that I find myself straightening up in my father’s brownish leather chair. My gaze scans a set of rules listed one after another, and though I’ve expected something like this, I did not expect the rules to be so…unconventional.
MARRIAGE CONTRACT
VIII.Terms and rules cont.:
6. The parties hereby agree to remain faithful to one another, refraining from any act of adultery or infidelity.
This obligation shall take effect upon the date of contract signing, which signifies the formal engagement between the parties.
Any violation of this clause shall constitute a material breach, subject to the penalties outlined in Section 8.
7. The parties mutually agree that the Wife shall conceive and deliver a living heir, thereby ensuring the continuity of the Vold family bloodline, within a period not exceeding twelve (12) months from the Effective Date of this Agreement.
Failure to produce said heir within the stipulated timeframe shall be deemed a violation of the terms herein and shall constitute a material breach of contract, subject to the penalties outlined in Section 8.
8. The parties recognize that this Agreement is irrevocable and binding until the death of either party.
Any material breach of the terms herein shall result in the forfeiture of the offending party’s life.
Both families have agreed to this penalty in advance.
This clause is nonnegotiable and enforceable without appeal.
The undersigned parties do hereby agree to the terms of this contract.
Conceive and deliver a living heir.
I stare at the words, my fingers tightening on the edge of the contract as if squeezing hard enough would smudge the ink into nothingness.
Are they for real now?
My jaw tightens, holding back a disbelieving breath. The absurdity of it doesn’t even allow me to be fully outraged. It just feels… surreal.
But that’s not even the worst part.
Within a period not exceeding twelve (12) months.
Twelve months. One year to conceive and deliver a living child, or I’m in violation. My eyes scan ahead, searching for what “violation” means, and then I find it. Section 8.
Any material breach of the terms herein shall result in the forfeiture of the offending party’s life.
Forfeiture of life.
My sigh escapes on its own, catching the attention of everyone in the room. My parents. Mr. Zhang. My future brother-in-law.
I read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something less monstrous.
Forfeiture of the offending party’s life. Both families have agreed to this penalty in advance. This clause is nonnegotiable and enforceable without appeal.
Both families.
My father agreed to this. My own father signed a document that says if my body fails to produce a child within a year, I die.
Death.
A single word printed in plain type, but with a weight that settles in my stomach like concrete. My pulse thuds in my ears as I lean back in my seat, suddenly aware of how cold my skin feels and how stiff my posture has become.
This contract isn’t just shackles clamped around my wrists. It’s a lifetime sentence I can’t escape from.
A death sentence.
I search for the place where I should sign the papers before sliding them back across the polished surface of my father’s desk, the attorney watching me like a vulture eyeing fresh roadkill.
“Done.” I lift my chin.
He picks up the signed papers like they’re trophies.
“Thank you, Princess Almaviri.” He inclines his head and puts the documents into a leather bag.
Then he reaches into his jacket pocket for a small velvet box.
He opens it, then slides it across the desk toward me with all the ceremony of passing a dinner receipt.
“From Mr. Vold,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I stare at it. A ring. An engagement ring, delivered by a lawyer. Not on a knee. Not with words. Not even from his own hand. Just... slid across a desk like a transaction receipt.
I am a princess of Monsera. I have been courted by diplomats, pursued by heirs of nations, and presented with tokens of affection wrapped in poetry and flown across continents.
And this man—this arsehole who couldn’t be bothered to show his face—sends his attorney to deliver my engagement ring as though it’s a parcel that needed signing for.
The audacity doesn’t sting. It burns.
I don’t touch the box, that enormous diamond insult, while Mr. Zhang watches me with an expression that suggests he expected gratitude.
“Well,” he eventually stutters. “That would be all. See you in two weeks.”
“Actually, Mr. Zhang.” I smile. “A moment.”
He pauses mid-step, his brows drawing together with confusion as though he had already mentally closed the case and was being asked to reopen it.
I reach for a fountain pen from my father’s desk. Then a piece of ivory heavy-stock paper, embossed with the Almaviri crest.
I write five words. My handwriting is immaculate—years of royal tutoring will do that—each stroke carrying the full weight of a princess who has just been proposed to by a leather bag.
I fold the paper with crisp, clean edges. Then I lift the velvet box and, without touching the ring inside, tuck the note in beside that obscene diamond, and snap the lid shut.
I slide it back across the desk toward Mr. Zhang exactly the same way he delivered it to me.
“Pass this to my fiancé.” My smile doesn’t waver. “Directly. Not through an assistant. Not through a courier. Into his hands. I trust that won’t be too inconvenient?”
Mr. Zhang stares at the box, then at me, and for the briefest moment something flickers across his face. Respect, perhaps, or simply the realization that his client’s bride is anything but the docile arrangement everyone expected.
“Of course, Princess Almaviri.” He takes the box, handling it now with marginally more care than he did the contract.
Good. Let the arsehole read it himself. Let him hold the note in his hands and know that the woman he couldn’t be bothered to meet has a voice, and it bites.
Mr. Zhang clears his throat, exchanges a glance with the blond brother—Eero, I think his name was—and they exit as though they haven’t just turned my life inside out in under an hour.
The door clicks shut. It’s done. Without fanfare, without ceremony, without a man on bended knee—I’m engaged to a Norwegian mafia heir who couldn’t spare an afternoon to meet the woman he’s contractually obligated to impregnate within twelve months or watch her die.
How terribly romantic.
Two weeks pass in a blur of fittings, formalities, and the slow, suffocating realization that no one is coming to stop this—least of all me.
One moment I was signing away my future in my father’s study, the next I’m standing at the mouth of an aisle that stretches toward a man I’ve never spoken to, never touched, never wanted—yet, in a matter of minutes, will vow to love until death.
Which, according to Section 8, might come sooner than expected if my body doesn’t cooperate.
And though I feel like a tragic princess in a fairy tale gone wrong, my four-year-younger sister, Naomi, said it best: “Maybe it’s not the wedding of your dreams, but you should look like you’re from one.”
So I do. I walk down the aisle in a princess-style gown with a delicate off-the-shoulder cut and long gloves that reach my shoulders, which look like sleeves on the dress.
The bodice fits perfectly against my form while the voluminous, regal skirt trails me like a whisper of what this day should’ve been.
My hair is in a half updo, with a few strands framing my face, and the waves left loose fall down my back, contrasting with the snowy-white gown.
My face stays hidden beneath a thin veil, but it does little to shield me from the dire reality that my father’s nudge brings me back to.
His arm is stiff beneath mine as he leads me forward. Every step I take feels more like chains wrapping around me. I can feel everyone watching but don’t blame them. After all, it doesn’t happen often to see a royal bride and a mafia groom.
A match made in hell.
Then I see him, and a frost cuts down my spine.
He stands at the altar, tall and composed, built like a Viking who stepped out of some forgotten saga. At least six-foot-five with the shoulders of a warlord. The tailored suit he’s wearing hugs every inch.
He turns as I approach, and the moment our eyes meet, it’s like the breath is knocked out of my lungs.
Those eyes.
Pale blue, regal in their intensity yet glacial in their coolness, like the Nordic sky on a winter morning.
They pierce through the veil as though searching for something beneath it.
His pale skin contrasts with his thick black hair, swept back in a way that looks careless yet is anything but, framing a face made to tempt fate.
A strong jaw. A mouth that knows too many sins.
And the bridge piercing resting between his eyes, twin glints of silver threading just above the line of his nose.
It draws attention straight to those painfully focused eyes, the kind of eyes that don’t just look at you…
they decipher. Eyes that make you feel like he already knows your worst secrets.
Add to it the silver in his ear, a constellation of metal that should’ve made him look rebellious but somehow makes him look controlled.
He looks like a danger I should run away from. The kind of man mothers warn their daughters about. The kind of man you don’t survive loving.
He’s handsome, I’ll give him that.
So handsome it’s, in fact, infuriating.
So handsome he could’ve been my fantasy, but I don’t get to live that life.
Instead, I’m walking down the aisle like a lamb to slaughter. And when I stop in front of him, he looks at me like he already regrets every second of it.
Too bad, the feeling’s mutual.