The dress weighed forty pounds.
Elara stood before the floor-length mirror, motionless as a mannequin, while the seamstress pinned the final layer of ivory silk. The fabric was heavy, suffocating, embroidered with thousands of seed pearls that caught the light like cold, trapped stars.
She looked beautiful, She looked expensive.
She looked like something that was about to be sold.
"Chin up," her father's voice cut through the silence of the bridal suite.
Elara obeyed instantly. It was a reflex, drilled into her bones since childhood.
Don Vittorio Rossi stood in the doorway. He didn't enter. He rarely entered her space unless he had a criticism to deliver. He wore a tuxedo that cost more than most men earned in a year, his silver hair slicked back.
He didn't smile. He looked at her the way a man looks at a racehorse before the gates open. Assessing the investment. Checking for flaws.
"The Valentis are seated," he said, his tone flat. "You walk in fifteen minutes. Do not stumble. Do not cry. Speak clearly."
"Yes, Father."
He stepped closer, waving the seamstress away. The woman scurried out, leaving the scent of fear in her wake.
Vittorio stopped behind Elara, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His gaze was devoid of affection.
"You have one job tonight, Elara. Do not embarrass me."
Elara's fingers tightened in the heavy folds of her skirt. "I won't."
"Good." He turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob. Then he paused. "And Elara? Try to look... willing. Damien Valenti does not tolerate weakness. If you bore him, this alliance crumbles. And if this alliance crumbles..."
He let the silence hang there, heavy and threatening. He didn't need to finish the sentence. She knew what happened to failed assets in the Rossi family. They disappeared.
The door clicked shut.
Elara exhaled, a long, shaky breath that fogged the mirror for a second. She stared at her reflection.
Twenty-one years old. Fluent in three languages. Trained in etiquette, politics, and silence. She had never chosen a dress for herself. Never chosen a meal. Never chosen a friend.
And in fifteen minutes, she would belong to Damien Valenti.
She knew the rumors. Everyone did. The Ice King. The man who took over the Valenti empire at twenty-five and ran it with the cold efficiency of a machine. They said he didn't have a temper because he didn't have feelings. They said he viewed people as numbers on a ledger.
Today, she became a number.
The seamstress returned with the veil, a cloud of lace that would obscure her face, hiding the terror in her eyes.
"You're ready, Miss Rossi."
Elara looked at herself one last time. She practiced the smile—small, demure, grateful. The smile of a girl honored to be sacrificed.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm ready."
The cathedral was ancient and freezing.
Stone walls rose high into the shadows.
Elara walked down the aisle alone. Her father had refused to escort her—he said it was beneath him, that the symbolism was outdated. The truth was simpler: he didn't want to be associated with her any more than necessary.
So she walked alone, one measured step at a time, while three hundred guests watched from the pews.
She recognized some of the faces. Crime lords from the Eastern seaboard. Politicians who owed their careers to dirty money. Women dripping in diamonds that had probably been purchased with blood.
And at the altar, waiting for her, stood Damien Valenti.
He was taller than she expected. Broader. The photograph hadn't captured the weight of his presence—the way the air around him seemed to still, like even oxygen was afraid to move without his permission.
He watched her approach with no expression at all. No smile. No warmth. No curiosity.
Elara reached the altar. She stopped beside him. He smelled of expensive scotch and cold winter air.
The priest began to speak. Latin verses about love and sanctity floated through the air, meaningless and hollow.
"Do you, Damien Alessandro Valenti, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
His voice was deep, smooth, and utterly bored.
"And do you, Elara Vittoria Rossi, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Elara looked up. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
It was like looking into a void.
"I do."
"You may kiss the bride."
Damien didn't rush. He turned toward her, his movements fluid and precise. He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw. His fingers were warm, his touch surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained dead.
He leaned in. His lips brushed hers—dry, firm, impersonal.
He pulled back before the applause even started. He turned to face the crowd, his expression unchanged.
Elara stood beside him, forcing her lips into that small, practiced smile.
Property transferred. Deal closed.
The reception was noisy, all she wanted right now was to leave this place .
Elara sat at the head table, untouched food cooling on her plate. Damien sat next to her, but he might as well have been on another planet.
He was drinking scotch, speaking in low, rapid Italian to his Underboss, Enzo. He didn't introduce her to anyone. He hadn't even looked at her.
Occasionally, men would approach the table to pay respects. They kissed her hand, their eyes lingering on her chest or her neck, but they spoke only to Damien.
She was a trophy. A shiny thing to be admired but not heard.
Across the room, she saw Sofia.
The woman was hard to miss. Dressed in crimson silk that left little to the imagination, she stood near the bar. Her dark eyes kept flicking toward the head table—not at Elara, but at Damien.
Sofia caught Elara watching and smirked, raising her glass in a mock toast. The message was clear: You might wear the ring, honey, but I hold the leash.
Elara looked away, her stomach twisting.
"Mrs. Valenti."
Enzo appeared at the table, leaning down to whisper to Damien. Damien nodded once, drained his glass, and stood up.
He adjusted his cuffs, finally looking down at Elara.
"We're leaving."
Elara stood quickly, smoothing her skirts. "Okay."
He didn't offer his arm. He turned and walked toward the exit, expecting her to follow.
She trailed three steps behind him, head high, ignoring the whispers that rippled through the room.
If only they knew.
Outside, the air was crisp.
A convoy of three black SUVs idled at the curb. Engines purred like resting beasts.
Damien stopped at the middle vehicle. He opened the door, but he didn't get in. He turned to Enzo.
"I'll take the lead car," Damien said, checking his watch. "I have a call with the Senator in ten minutes. Put her in the second vehicle."
Elara froze mid-step.
He wasn't even riding with her? On their wedding night?
Enzo looked uncomfortable for a split second, glancing at Elara, but he nodded. "Yes, Boss."
Damien didn't look at Elara. He got into the first SUV, shutting the door firmly.
Elara stood there in her forty-pound dress, humiliation burning hot in her chest.
"This way, Ma'am," a guard muttered, opening the door of the second SUV.
She climbed in, gathering the mountain of silk around her. The door slammed shut, sealing her in silence.
The convoy began to move.
Elara leaned her head against the cool window, watching the city lights blur. She felt small,Stupid and alone .
She closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her.
Just survive,she told herself. Just survive the night.
They hit the tunnel ten minutes later then
a deafening BOOM tore through the air. The lead SUV—Damien's car—swerved violently as a fireball erupted on the road ahead of it, forcing it to slam into the concrete wall.
"Ambush!" the driver screamed.
Elara was thrown forward, the seatbelt digging into her chest.
Tires screeched. Gunfire erupted—loud.
The SUV behind them exploded.
They were trapped.
"Stay down!" the guard in the front seat yelled, drawing his weapon.
But the doors were already being ripped open.
Elara looked up, gasping, as black-clad figures swarmed the vehicle. The glass shattered. A hand reached in, grabbing the guard by the throat and dragging him out into the smoke.
A man stepped into the open doorway.
He wasn't wearing a mask.
He wore a tuxedo shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was wild, windblown. And his face...
It was Damien's face, but distorted by madness.
Lucian Valenti.
Elara stopped breathing. She knew the stories. The volatile brother. The one they kept on a chain.
He looked into the car, his eyes locking onto hers. He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing she had seen today .
"Hello, sister-in-law," he purred over the sound of gunfire.
He reached in.
Elara tried to scramble back, kicking out with her heels, but there was nowhere to go. He grabbed her ankle, his grip bruising, and yanked her across the leather seats.
"No!" she screamed, clawing at the upholstery.
He dragged her out onto the asphalt. The air smelled of burning rubber and gunpowder.
Ahead, she saw Damien's SUV. The driver was dead. Damien was outside the car, pinned down by gunfire, shooting back—but he was looking the wrong way. He didn't see her. He was too busy saving himself.
Lucian hauled her up, spinning her around so her back hit his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, trapping her.
"Damien really shouldn't leave his toys unattended," Lucian whispered in her ear, his voice vibrating with adrenaline.
He started dragging her backward, toward a waiting van.
"Let me go!" Elara shrieked, thrashing against him.
"Not a chance," Lucian laughed. "You and I are going to have some fun."
He shoved her into the van.
The doors slammed shut, plunging her into darkness.
The last thing she heard was the sound of the engine roaring to life, carrying her away from a husband who hadn't even noticed she was gone.