Sunlight filtered in through the windows. I yawned and rolled over, getting ready to make my bed when a knock sounded at my door. My dad peeked his head in.
"Good morning. The makeup crew is here—go meet them in the guest room."
And then he closed the door.
Oh Lord, was this really happening to me? I was really going to marry a man I knew nothing about. I had only seen him once—on the day of the negotiations —and he gave me chills. He wore an aloof expression and only said, "You will be my wife, malyshka."
I had to admit, he looked imposing . And I—well, I felt terribly small in comparison. He looked like he could crush me in a heartbeat.
I didn't want to think about any of that. Shaking the thoughts away, I headed to the guest room for my makeup.
The makeup crew lit up the moment they saw me. I couldn't understand why they were so excited.
"You're so lucky," Valentina the brunnete among them gushed as she applied my concealer . "Your husband is every girl's dream." I knew it was the normal thing for her to say but it only increased the pressure in my chest, I wish mom was still alive, she would have prevented this.
Suddenly they stripped me bare without ceremony.
I stood in the center of my bedroom, naked and numb, as they circled with their lotions and potions. Cold hands smoothed cream over my shoulders. A brush dragged through my tangled hair. Someone murmured in Italian—"Bellissima"—as if I were a prized mare being groomed for sale.
Maybe I was.
The dress was a weapon.
Ivory satin, strapless, with a corset tight enough to fracture ribs. The seamstress yanked the laces with sadistic precision, stealing my breath stitch by stitch.
"Breathe out," she ordered.
I didn't.
The bodice squeezed, punishing. I welcomed the pain—it was the only thing keeping me from screaming.
Valentina clasped a diamond choker around my throat. The stones were cold. Heavy. A collar disguised as a gift.
"Perfect," she purred, stepping back. "Now, look."
I turned to the mirror.
A stranger stared back.
My dark hair had been twisted into an elaborate updo, strands artfully loosened to feign softness. My lips, painted a deep, bloody red. My eyes—God, my eyes—lined in black, wide and feral.
I looked like a queen.
I felt like a corpse.
My father waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Dressed in his finest suit, he looked every inch the proud patriarch. Only I saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around his cane. Guilt? No. Men like him didn't feel guilt.
"penelope." He offered his arm.
I walked past him.
The limo ride was silent.
Outside the cathedral, paparazzi swarmed like vultures, cameras flashing. I kept my chin up, my face a mask of icy indifference. Let them see a willing bride. Let them whisper about the Costa princess, so eager to marry the devil.
The doors swung open.
The scent of incense and roses hit me—cloying, suffocating. Hundreds of eyes turned. The entire New York underworld was here, dressed in their finest, watching. Judging.
And at the altar, him.
Vincent de la Rosa .
The Don of the Bratva. The man who'd bought me like a fucking chandelier.
He was devastating in his tuxedo, all broad shoulders and lethal grace. His dark hair was swept back, his jaw clean-shaven for once. But his eyes—those cold, grey eyes—burned with the same predatory amusement as always.
Waiting.
Daring me to run.
I didn't.
I walked.
Step. By. Agonizing. Step.
The music grew louder. The crowd sighed. And with every footfall, I plotted my revenge.
The priest's voice droned like a funeral dirge.
"Do you, Penelope costa , take this man—"
I didn't hear the rest. My pulse roared in my ears, a drumbeat of no no no.
Vincent's thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, a mockery of comfort. His touch burned.
"Breathe," he murmured, just for me. "You'll die if you keep holding your breath ."
I wanted to knee him in the groin.
Instead, I smiled.
The priest cleared his throat. "The rings?"
Vincent slid a band onto my finger—platinum, studded with black diamonds. A shackle disguised as jewelry.
My hands shook as I took his ring. His fingers curled around mine, squeezing—a silent warning.
Then it was done.
"You may kiss the bride."
Vincent didn't ask.
He hauled me against him, one hand fisting in my hair, the other splayed possessively over my lower back. His mouth crashed down on mine, hard enough to bruise. The crowd erupted in cheers.
The reception blurred ,i felt dizzy even though I had not eaten anything that was served, I was too nervous my thought kept ending up on the consummation, he didn't need to know that I couldn't. Vincent's hand never left my waist, branding me through the silk.
At some point, my father pulled me aside.
"This is for the family," he said, as if that excused selling his daughter.
I stared at him, my voice lethally calm. "I hope it was worth it."
His face darkened, but before he could reply, Vincent appeared, sliding an arm around my shoulders. We're leaving, he said like a command. No one argued.
The drive to his penthouse was silent.
I stared out the window, counting the streets, the exits, the ways I could gut him with my heels.
Vincent watched me, his gaze a physical weight.
"You hate me," he observed.
I didn't look at him. What could he possibly think.
The car stopped.
He opened my door, offering his hand.
I ignored it.
Vincent smiled, unfazed. "Welcome home, Mrs dela rosa.