I stood at the altar, my head bowed, as three men stood before me—my soon-to-be husbands. Their eyes had been fixed on me since the moment I walked down the aisle, my arm looped around Francisco Rivera's as he led me toward them.
No words were spoken. Just the priest's voice as it echoed across the hall.
"We gather here to witness the union between Malcolm, Kaden, and Viktor Santos to Isabella Rivera.."
The vows rang in my ears. I tried to block them out. To block everything out. If I could, I'd yank this suffocating veil off my head, sprint for the doors, screaming that I wasn't Isabella Rivera.
I wasn't her...
I could never be her. That this was a mistake–a terrible mistake.
That I was Amelia.
I had no last name. I was an orphan. A servant. Or, as some might say, a dirty little stray–the name they'd given me. Most of my life had been spent cleaning the rooms of the Rivera mansion, scrubbing the floors, never stepping foot beyond it's gates.
I had been sold here by the orphanage I grew up in. Sold at the age of six. They told me I was going to a new home, a new family. I still remember my large smile as I beamed at the thought of a new life–new toys, a proper meal, and finally going to school. Being normal, happy. Not confined to the gray walls of the orphanage, beaten if I didn't clean properly, didn't cook properly, for daring to meet eyes with any of the mistresses.
But when they brought me to the mansion, my new home–I still remember the sight of it. Tall, extravagant. I wondered if my new parents were royalty. If all the pain I'd endured in the orphanage would be erased.
Only to realize I wasn't given as a daughter.
But as a servant.
The same role. Just a different world.
I was sold as a personal doll. Isabella's doll. She would twist and yank my hair any way she wanted. There was a time she cut all my hair off. That day, I cried for the first time–I never did. I wasn't allowed to. The first rule I had been taught in the orphanage. As I cried, she punched me in the face for ruining the makeup she'd spent hours painting my face. I had went silent. Let her continue as she left me bald. That was the day I had accepted my fate.
That I wasn't human.
But a thing.
It still stung when I watched Isabella play with her dolls–something I'd craved to do when we were younger. But all I got was cleaning up the messes she left behind. When she went to school, I packed her bag, ironed her uniform, tied her shoes. Stood there, watching her leave, while I was sent back to the kitchen.
But now, everything has changed. I stood in issabella's shoes. Wearing her dress. Marrying her soon-to-be husbands.
And they had no idea.
Only the Rivera family knew. And anyone else who's known the Riveras long enough to know I wasn't Isabella.
But no one said a thing.
No one dared. All our lives were on a thin thread. The Santos brothers don't take well to betrayal. The price–paid with your blood.
Isabella fled this morning. Leaving a letter behind declaring she wouldn't marry those brutes. That she had her whole life waiting for her. That she dreamed of going to college. By the time her father had realized his beloved daughter had fled, it was too late to send his men after her because who knew how long it would take to find her?
It was too risky. Because if they didn't, the Santos brothers would be left waiting at the altar for a bride who would never arrive. An insult.
And they would retaliate.
By the time they realized, most of Francisco's men would be out searching for Isabella, leaving the mansion defenseless.
They would slaughter all the men. Enslave the women. No one would go unharmed. And Francisco couldn't possibly tell them his daughter fled. He'd lose his reputation. His power. He'd have to hang his head, fold his hands, and beg for forgiveness–with a peace offering he couldn't afford.
The businesses were in critical condition. That was the real reason for the marriage. The Riveras would gain financial help from the Santos. The Santos would gain hundreds of their ships on the coast. But with Isabella gone? The deal was off.
But Francisco would still have to hold his part of the bargain and provide the ships–and get nothing in return. It would mean his ruin.
So he came up with a plan.
The Santos brothers had never seen Isabella. The deal was between her father and them. They didn't care how she looked like or how she was. The marriage was for personal gain a transaction–nothing more.
So he put me in Isabella place and I had no say in the matter.
His threat still echoed at the back of my mind.
"If anyone gets to know about this, I'll make you my men's personal whore. All hundreds of them. They'll take turns," his grip tightened on my chin, tilting it up.
I didn't look at him–I knew the punishment for that. He leaned in, his warm breath fanning my face.
"One by one."
Then he pushed my chin to the side, moving away. I said nothing. Not even as the servants–women I'd known my whole life dressed me, their eyes sad, their hands trembling.
I obeyed.
What else could I do? I was just a servant, after all.