The night bled into morning without mercy. Aria hadn't slept; how could she, when every tick of the clock drove her closer to the unthinkable? They had locked her in a room far larger than her bedroom at home, draped in velvet curtains and hung with oil paintings worth more than her father's entire house. It was beautiful, yes, but every detail mocked her—every gilded frame and polished mirror whispered the same truth: this isn't yours. You don't belong. You're trapped.
At some point before dawn, servants came. Silent women with downturned eyes, carrying garments wrapped in silk. They didn't ask, they didn't explain. They simply began their work—laying out the dress, opening boxes of jewelry heavy enough to weigh her down like chains, and filling basins with steaming water. Aria tried to resist at first, clutching her arms over her chest, snapping that she didn't want any of it, that they couldn't make her. But the women moved with practiced efficiency, their silence louder than any order. Eventually, her fight wilted—not from surrender, but from exhaustion. She couldn't waste her strength on battles she couldn't win, not yet.
The dress was ivory, cut to perfection, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Pearls lined the bodice, delicate as raindrops, but to her they felt like shackles. Around her throat, they fastened a necklace of diamonds—cold, merciless stones that glittered under the light. Her hair was twisted and pinned, sprayed into submission, and when they were finished, she barely recognized the girl in the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't Aria Moretti, hopeful scholarship student. She was something else now—an ornament. A prize. A bride in chains.
When the doors opened, she expected Lorenzo to appear, but it wasn't him. Instead, a pair of guards entered, their faces blank as they gestured for her to move. She wanted to run, to throw herself out of the window and vanish into the gardens, but there was nowhere to go. The mansion was a fortress, and every exit was guarded. Her only choice was forward.
They led her down corridors that seemed longer than the night itself, their marble floors echoing beneath her heels. At the end of the hall, massive doors swung open, and the sound of voices struck her like a blow.
The room was a chapel, though not the kind she'd dreamed of as a girl. Instead of warmth and holiness, it radiated power. Gold-lined arches soared overhead, stained-glass windows cast crimson light across the floor, and rows of suited men filled the pews, their gazes sharp and assessing. No family. No friends. No love. Only men of business, gathered to witness a contract disguised as a union.
And at the altar, waiting for her, was Lorenzo.
He stood like a king, framed by light spilling through the stained glass. His suit was black as midnight, his tie a slash of deep red, his cufflinks glinting like blood. There was no joy in his face, no hint of nerves or tenderness—only certainty, cold and unshakable. When his eyes met hers across the chapel, her breath caught. Not because she saw affection there, but because of the weight of inevitability. He was a man who had already decided her fate, and he would bend the world itself to make it so.
"Bring her," someone murmured, and the guards at her side ushered her forward.
The walk down the aisle felt endless. Every step rang out like a countdown, and she imagined each click of her heel as a nail sealing her coffin. The men watched in silence, their expressions unreadable, though she caught a smirk or two. She wanted to scream, to shout that this wasn't a wedding, that this was a performance, a theft, a crime—but her voice stuck in her throat.
When she reached the altar, Lorenzo extended his hand. She hesitated, staring at it, then lifted her chin and refused. If she was going to be dragged into this, she would not walk willingly.
For the first time that morning, something flickered in his expression. Not anger—he was too controlled for that. Amusement, perhaps. Challenge. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his hand and let it drop back to his side. "So be it," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
The officiant—a priest, though his eyes were colder than any man of God's should be—opened a book and began the vows. They weren't vows of love or devotion, not really. They were vows of ownership, words stripped of romance and filled with legality. A union of families, of debts, of power. The priest spoke of honor, loyalty, and sacrifice, but Aria heard only the rattle of chains.
"Do you, Lorenzo De Luca, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," Lorenzo said without hesitation, his voice steady, final.
The priest turned to her. "Do you, Aria Moretti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Her throat closed, her chest heaved, and for one wild second she thought she might scream no. She thought of her father's broken expression when the men had come for her, of her own shattered future, of the fact that this was everything she had sworn she'd never let happen. Her lips parted—
"She does," Lorenzo said smoothly, cutting her off before the words could form. His eyes pinned hers, daring her to fight him in front of everyone.
The priest hesitated only briefly before nodding. "By the power vested in me..."
Aria's heart slammed against her ribs.
"...I now pronounce you husband and wife."
And then Lorenzo turned to her.
The kiss wasn't tender, wasn't gentle. He didn't lean in with hesitation or warmth. He claimed her mouth like a conqueror taking territory, his hand firm against her jaw, holding her still as his lips pressed against hers. The room erupted in applause, glasses lifted, but all Aria could hear was the roaring in her ears. The kiss wasn't love. It wasn't even desire. It was a brand, a signature scrawled across her soul for all to see.
When he pulled back, his lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A smile that said you are mine, and the world now knows it.
Aria's hands trembled at her sides. The pearls around her neck felt heavier, the diamonds colder. The ceremony ended in cheers and toasts, but she barely heard them. All she could hear was the truth crashing down around her.
She was no longer Aria Moretti.
She was Aria De Luca.
And she had just become the wife of the man she hated most in the world.