2. was not ready

Emilia forced a smile to her lips, though it felt like her face might crack under the effort. The weight of betrayal sat heavy on her chest, a suffocating pressure threatening to pull her under. Her sister’s actions echoed in her mind, leaving an ache that no forced pleasantry could mask. Every glance she stole at the elegantly dressed crowd only reminded her of the facade she was about to live.

The aisle stretched before her like a path to her doom, impossibly long and lined with golden roses in crystal vases. The weight of their fragrance was suffocating, a cruel mockery of the beauty her life lacked. Every step she took alongside Luca felt like walking on shards of glass. The room, alive with murmurs, felt like it held its breath, watching her every move.

Her lips ached from forcing a smile, but she pressed on. She could feel Luca’s hand on her arm, firm and unyielding, as if warning her not to falter. His strength radiated through his grip, but there was no comfort in it—only a reminder of how powerless she was in his presence.

The grand altar loomed ahead, a marble structure adorned with gold and white lilies. The officiant stood there, waiting, his eyes scanning the bride with quiet approval. Emilia tried not to meet his gaze, afraid that her turmoil might bleed through her practiced mask.

Her sister’s absence weighed on her. The sting of betrayal from someone she had shared everything with—birthdays, secrets, dreams—cut deeper than any knife. Emilia swallowed hard, fighting the rising tide of emotions threatening to choke her.

As they reached the altar, Luca released her arm and stepped ahead. He moved with an air of dominance, commanding the attention of the room without a word. His dark eyes turned to her, narrowing slightly as though daring her to falter.

She straightened her spine, her fingers clutching the bouquet of white roses tighter. The petals bruised under her grip, mirroring her fractured resolve.

The officiant’s voice broke through the tense silence. “Dearly beloved, we gather here today to unite Luca Moretti and Emilia Russo in the sacred bond of matrimony…”

The words felt like a cruel joke. There was nothing sacred about this union, and Emilia doubted there ever would be. She wasn’t here out of love, devotion, or even choice. She was here because of her sister’s betrayal and Luca’s manipulative schemes.

Her gaze drifted to the crowd—a sea of unfamiliar faces, all watching with varying degrees of curiosity and approval. To them, this was a perfect alliance between two powerful families. To her, it was the end of the life she had once known.

“Do you, Luca Moretti, take Emilia Russo to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Luca said without hesitation, his voice smooth and confident.

His answer echoed in her ears, cementing the reality of her situation. Her pulse quickened as the officiant turned to her.

“And do you, Emilia Russo, take Luca Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Her throat tightened. Time seemed to slow, and for a fleeting moment, she considered saying no, fleeing the altar, and running as far away from this nightmare as possible.

But she knew better. The Moretti family wasn’t known for their patience or mercy. Refusing Luca now would only result in consequences too dire to imagine—for her and her family.

“I… I do,” she whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

The officiant smiled and continued, but Emilia barely registered the rest of the ceremony. Her mind was a whirlwind of anger, fear, and hopelessness. When the time came to exchange rings, her hands trembled as Luca slipped the cold metal band onto her finger.

Her fingers hesitated as she picked up his ring. The idea of placing it on his hand, solidifying this union, felt like sealing her own fate. But the weight of his gaze pinned her in place. With shaking hands, she slid the ring onto his finger, her heart sinking with every millimeter.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declared. “You may kiss the bride.”

Emilia’s heart skipped a beat. Before she could react, Luca stepped closer, his hand cupping her cheek. His lips claimed hers in a kiss—not of love, but of possession. The room erupted into applause, their cheers and congratulations a deafening roar in her ears.

Luca pulled back, his lips curling into a faint smirk. He leaned in, his voice low and mocking. “Smile, cara mia. You’re a Moretti now.”

Her forced smile faltered, but she quickly plastered it back on, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. The crowd’s attention shifted as the newlyweds were announced, their focus no longer on Emilia’s every move.

The reception began shortly after, with the grand hall transforming into a celebration of excess and grandeur. Tables overflowed with delicacies, and the air buzzed with music and laughter. Emilia stood by Luca’s side, her hand resting limply on his arm as guest after guest approached to congratulate them.

“She’s stunning, Moretti,” one man said with a sly smile. “A perfect match for you.”

Luca’s grip on her waist tightened slightly, his smile sharp and calculated. “She’s more than I could have asked for.”

Emilia’s stomach churned. She wanted to scream, to run, to do something to break free from this nightmare. But she stood frozen, her smile fixed and hollow.

Every interaction felt like a performance, every compliment a reminder of the role she was now forced to play. And through it all, Luca’s presence loomed over her like a shadow, his control unrelenting.

By the time they sat for the meal, Emilia’s face ached from smiling. She picked at her plate, unable to stomach the rich food before her. Luca, ever the perfect host, seemed unfazed, engaging in conversations with guests as though this were the happiest day of his life.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked her quietly, his voice smooth but laced with warning.

Emilia met his gaze, her anger flaring despite herself. “I’m doing exactly what’s expected of me,” she replied, her tone cool.

His lips twitched into a smirk. “Good. Keep it that way.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Guests danced, drank, and celebrated while Emilia played her part, her movements mechanical and her smile brittle. She felt like a doll, dressed up and put on display for everyone to admire.

But beneath the facade, the spark of defiance in her chest refused to die. Luca might have won this battle, but Emilia wasn’t ready to surrender.

Not yet.