I felt like a doll.
Not the kind little girls loved—but the kind kept behind glass.
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the private mansion, a doll dressed in white silk and lace.
The dress was a marvel of Dante's impeccable, sadistic taste. It was heavy—so heavy I could barely breathe, the layers of tulle and hand-stitched pearls pinning me to the floor. It was designed to make a a woman look like a dream while quietly suffocating her underneath.
Dante had chosen it.
Of course he had.
Hours earlier, he had washed me himself. His hands had been unhurried, almost reverent, as if he were restoring a priceless artifact instead of preparing a woman for a marriage she didn't want. He said he liked my hair—its texture, the way it softened beneath his fingers.
"I'd know you anywhere," he'd murmured while braiding it himself. "Even blind."
The memory made my stomach twist.
Now, stylists hovered around me, adjusting fabric, brushing powder across my face with trembling hands. They spoke little, and when they did, their words were broken, rushed—fear lived in every movement they made.
Though, I didn't hear anything they said, because they didn't speak English.
"Don't cry," one of the stylists whispered in broken, jagged English. She was trembling as she tucked a stray hair behind my ear. "Please. No cry. You ruin the face. If face ruin... Dante..." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. The terror in her eyes said enough. If the "painting" was smudged, the artist would kill the tools.
When they were done, they fled the room like prey released from a trap.
I turned my gaze to the window. Below, the sprawling emerald lawn wolves patrolled the perimeter—Dante's wolves. Guards stood at every entrance, armed, watching.
No exits.
No mercy.
The wedding was already set.
No guests. No witnesses. Just his men. His world. His rules.
Finally, a maid entered with a small tray of food. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. She placed it down carefully, eyes lowered, hands shaking.
As she turned to leave, panic ripped through me.
"Please," I whispered, rushing toward her, the dress restricting every step. I grabbed her hand, my fingers digging into her skin.
"Please, I owe you my life. I'll give you everything—money, protection—just help me. Get me a phone. Help me get out of here. Please don't let him do this to me!"
The maid didn't scream. She didn't even speak. Her face went bone-white, a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. She began to pull away, her breath coming in frantic, wet wheezes. She opened her mouth, but no words came out—only a series of guttural, high-pitched "uh-uh" noises.
She pried my fingers off her skin like I was the dangerous one, then ran. I stood there, my hand still reaching out into the empty air, staring at the door.
I sank onto the chair by the window, staring at the untouched food. My chest ached. Kieran where are you?
The door didn't just open a few minutes later—it burst.
I didn't have to look up to know who it was. The air in the room thickened, turning heavy with the scent of expensive cologne.
I heard his slow, rhythmic footsteps
"You never learn, do you, Aurielle?" He purred.
I stood up, my knees shaking, backing away until the edge of the bed hit the back of my legs.
Dante stood in the center of the room, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal-black suit. He looked at me with that same sadistic, satisfied smile. "Actually... I think I'm done calling you 'Aurielle.' It feels so... formal. And you're going to be my wife in a matter of hours."
He walked closer, his eyes raking over the dress he had chosen, looking at me like I was a prize he had finally won.
"We need something more intimate," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, melodic register. "What do you think, hm? Do you like 'Little Mouse'? No... you've shown too much teeth for that. How about 'My Pretty Thing?' Or.... 'My Sweet Ruin.'
I pressed my back against the bedpost, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Why are you backing away from your husband, My sweet ruin?"
He stepped into my space, his hand coming up to tilt my chin, forcing me to look into those mismatched, beautiful, hollow eyes.
"I like that one best," he smiled, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "If i can't have you safely — I'll have you catastrophically."
I tried to pull away, but his grip on my chin was a vice. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made my stomach turn.
"Asking my workers for help is a very stupid thing to do, My Sweet Ruin."
He let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his mismatched eyes.
"They don't speak English. And even if they did, they are loyal only to me. You saw the maid who brought your food, didn't you? She couldn't speak properly, could she?"
I thought of the woman's frantic, wet wheezing and the guttural noises she had made. My breath hitched.
"Exactly," Dante purred, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "She is mute. Her tongue was cut off. And guess who cut it off?"
I didn't want to know.
"Me," he whispered, looking proud of the admission. "Once upon a time, I had another doll like you. Well, not quite like you—you are far superior to my former playthings. She was petite, blonde, big blue eyes... but she cried too much. She grew boring."
He sighed as if recollecting a minor inconvenience. "One day, she was foolish enough to ask my maid for help. And the maid was foolish enough to try. I grew tired of the noise, so I killed that doll. I threw her into the dungeon and let my hungry wolves have what was left."
The horror must have been written all over my face because his smile widened, showing a flash of white teeth.
"But I kept the maid. She makes the most exquisite tea, you see. I didn't want to lose her talent, so I simply removed the part of her that betrayed me. I took her tongue as a reminder."
I felt a wave of pure disgust roll over me.
Dante's expression softened suddenly, a terrifyingly tender look crossing his features. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
"Don't look at me like that, Aurielle. I would never do that to you. You are more than a toy. You are special. You are mine."
He didn't give me time to breathe.
The moment the words left his mouth—You're special to me—his hand closed around my wrist.
Not guiding.
Dragging.
The doors of the mansion swung open as Dante pulled me forward, the heavy skirts of my dress scraping the marble floor, pearls whispering against stone like they were begging for mercy.
"There's usually a procession," he said casually, as though commenting on the weather. "The bride walks slowly. Everyone watches. The groom waits."
He glanced back at me, smiling.
"I don't wait."
The private garden stretched before us—immaculate, expensive, unreal. White chairs lined the aisle. His men sat like statues, weapons hidden but present. The priest waited at the altar, hands clasped, already pale.
Dante walked me himself.
My hand was trapped in his, his grip iron-tight as he dragged me down the aisle.
We reached the altar. The priest—an older man whose vestments were shaking—looked as if he were standing before an executioner rather than a groom.
The priest swallowed hard and cleared his throat, his voice trembling as he began.
"Do you, Dante D'Angelo, take Miss Aurielle Duval to be your lawfully wedded wife—"
"Yes."
"Yes," Dante repeated, smiling. "I take her."
His thumb brushed my knuckles—tender, deceptive.
"I take her as mine," he continued softly, lovingly. "To keep. To own. To ruin if necessary."
My blood ran cold.
"She will belong to me in every lifetime," he said. "And if she ever thinks of leaving—" his smile sharpened, "—I will break her so thoroughly she won't remember who she was before me."
The priest's hands began to shake.
"I will love her obsessively," Dante went on, voice warm, almost romantic. "Protect her violently. And if death ever comes between us—" he leaned closer to my ear, "—I'll follow her into it."
Dante lifted the diamond ring and slid it onto my finger.
"Done," he murmured.
The priest hesitated before turning to me, "Miss Aurielle Duval," he said quietly. "Do you take Dante D'Angelo to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I couldn't speak.
Dante's hand tightened around mine.
Then tighter.
Pain exploded up my arm as he squeezed, bending my fingers back unnaturally.
A cry tore from my throat.
"Say it," he whispered, still smiling.
The pressure increased.
Just as the word yes began to form through my pain—
Gunshots ripped through the garden.
Boom!!
Boom!!
Boom!!