1. A bride in chain

Emilia Russo blinked slowly, her head spinning and her limbs heavy as if weighed down by unseen chains. The faint scent of roses mixed with a chemical tang lingered in the air. Her vision blurred, focusing only in fragments: golden chandeliers casting a warm glow, an ornate vanity scattered with sparkling jewels, and an unfamiliar woman adjusting the hem of a flowing white gown.

"What...?" Emilia's voice cracked, barely above a whisper. Her throat felt dry, as though she'd swallowed sandpaper. She tried to move, but her body resisted, her legs refusing to obey.

"She's awake," someone muttered from behind. The voice was sharp, cutting through Emilia's foggy mind.

The woman at her side turned, her cold eyes scanning Emilia's face. "Don't move too much. The sedative will wear off soon enough."

Panic clawed at Emilia’s chest. "Where am I?" she rasped, her eyes darting around the room. Her hands instinctively reached for the heavy fabric draped over her body. White. Lace. A wedding gown.

Her heart thudded violently. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice trembling.

The older woman scoffed. "It’s your wedding day, Miss Russo. Be grateful you're fulfilling your duty."

"My what?" Emilia’s breath hitched as the reality of her surroundings sank in. The mirrors reflected her pale face, framed by an elaborate hairstyle she hadn’t approved. Her trembling fingers brushed over the gown’s intricate beadwork, the sensation alien and terrifying.

"I’m not getting married," she hissed, her panic growing into fury. "Where is Elena? What have you done to her?"

The woman’s expression remained cold. "Miss Elena made her choice. Now, you must make yours."

"Choice?" Emilia snapped, her voice rising. "Drugging me and forcing me into this is not a choice! Where is my sister?"

Before Emilia could press further, the door creaked open, and a tall, imposing figure stepped inside. His dark suit clung to his broad frame, his piercing gaze locking onto Emilia as if he were studying every inch of her defiance.

Luca Moretti. The name alone was enough to make her blood run cold.

His lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Well, well. The bride is finally awake."

Emilia’s pulse quickened as she stared at him, her mind racing to piece together the fragments of her predicament. "This is a mistake," she said, her voice sharper now. "You have the wrong sister."

Luca stepped closer, his eyes darkening. "Do I?" He reached out, tracing a finger along the edge of her veil, his touch sending a chill down her spine. "Elena was supposed to stand here. But now... you’re here instead."

"Because someone drugged me!" Emilia snapped, her anger flaring despite her fear. "I never agreed to this. Let me go."

Luca's smile vanished, replaced by a dangerous calm. "Let you go?" he repeated, his tone icy. "You don’t understand, do you? There is no escape from this, cara mia. Whether by choice or circumstance, you are now mine."

The finality in his voice sent shivers through her. "I will never be yours," she spat, her defiance lighting a fire in her chest.

Luca’s gaze flickered with amusement, as if her resistance only intrigued him further. He leaned closer, his shadow enveloping her. "We’ll see," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that felt like both a promise and a threat.

Emilia glared at him, willing her legs to cooperate, but her body still felt sluggish, her limbs like lead. She could barely sit upright in the chair as the woman beside her adjusted the veil draped over her shoulders.

"Why me?" Emilia demanded, her voice trembling but steady. "Why not Elena?"

Luca’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, his expression faltered. "Your sister decided to run," he admitted, his tone laced with irritation. "She left you in her place. Perhaps she thought I wouldn’t notice."

Emilia’s stomach churned. Elena had always been the one to flee from responsibility, but this... this was betrayal on a level she hadn’t imagined. She felt tears prick at her eyes but blinked them away, refusing to appear weak in front of this man.

"I’m not her," Emilia said, her voice firm. "Whatever deal you had with Elena, I’m not a part of it. I don’t belong here."

Luca tilted his head, studying her. "Perhaps not," he said, his voice cold. "But the Russo name is all that matters. I need a Russo bride, and now, that bride is you."

"You're insane," Emilia muttered, her hands balling into fists.

He smirked, leaning closer until his face was inches from hers. "Maybe. But you’ll find that crossing me is far more dangerous than agreeing to this marriage."

Her breath hitched, her instincts screaming at her to run. But she couldn’t—not yet. She needed to think, to strategize. Panic would only make her situation worse.

The older woman clasped her hands together, breaking the tense silence. "Mr. Moretti, the guests are arriving. Shall I escort Miss Russo to the ceremony?"

Luca straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. "No," he said, his gaze never leaving Emilia. "I’ll take her myself."

Emilia recoiled as he extended his hand toward her. She shook her head. "I’m not going anywhere with you."

His eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped. "You can walk with dignity, or I can carry you. The choice is yours."

The threat hung heavy in the air, and Emilia realized with a sinking heart that he wasn’t bluffing. Her mind raced, desperate for a way out, but the sedative still fogged her senses.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I’ll walk," she said finally, her voice laced with venom.

"Good girl," Luca said, a ghost of a smirk returning to his lips.

He offered his arm, but Emilia ignored it, pushing herself to her feet with effort. Her legs wobbled, the room spinning briefly, but she steadied herself. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her stumble.

As they exited the room, the hallway stretched before her, lined with guards in sharp black suits. Their faces were unreadable, their eyes following her every move. Emilia’s heart pounded as she realized the depth of Luca’s control. There would be no easy escape from this fortress.

They descended a grand staircase, the hum of distant voices growing louder with each step. Emilia’s pulse quickened as they approached a set of ornate double doors, their golden handles gleaming under the chandelier’s light. Beyond those doors, she knew, awaited a room full of strangers ready to witness her forced union with a man she despised.

Luca paused, turning to her. "Smile, cara mia," he said, his voice low. "Your audience is waiting."

Emilia glared at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I hope you choke on your vows," she muttered under her breath.

His chuckle was dark, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. "I wouldn’t expect anything less from you."

The doors creaked open, revealing a sea of faces, all turning to watch as Emilia stepped into the spotlight. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let them see her fear.

If she was going to be a pawn in this game, she would at least play it her way.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d find a way to beat the king.