79 – Surrender

79 – Surrender
Leonor…
Damien tries to grab me again, probably planning to throw me over his shoulder like some barbarian.
Damn hot, brute man.
“That’s not the way,” Carlota Moretti, my grandmother, says.
“It’s the only way. She postponed the plan, but it can still work,” he argues.
I smack his arm so he’ll let me go. I hold back a scream so the wrong people don’t come running.
“If you run away with the bride, you’ll only make this mess harder to fix,” Carlota continues, her tone dry and cutting.
“Do you really think no one saw the two of you sneaking out to the balcony? I’m starting to wonder if I overestimated your intelligence.”
She speaks as if I’m not even here, as if my life were a transaction on the table again.
“You don’t know what he’s capable of doing to her,” Damien growls. “He knows about us, do you have any idea what he’ll do to Leonor if he gets his hands on her?”
“I’m right here, you bastards,” I cut in, my voice trembling with fury. “You’re talking about my life. I have a say in this, don’t I? I made my choice — I chose to get married. Has that even crossed your minds?”
My patience is slipping, unraveling thread by thread.
One more word and I’ll blow the whole façade to hell, scream until the chandeliers shatter.
Then, to my utter horror, the door slams again.
Fourth time.
This balcony is turning into a circus.
“The man who should carry the bride after the wedding is the husband,” Romero says smoothly, stepping in. “No need to do my job for me, son. I’ll take it from here.”
The silence that follows is thick and venomous.
My grandmother is the first to recover.
“I prepared a dinner for the newlyweds,” Carlota says to Damien with deliberate calm. “I still intend to give you my congratulations later. I believe that’s still possible.”
I can feel Damien’s tension through the arm holding me. Then he changes his mind, sets me down.
I must look like a disaster, disheveled, breathless, a parody of a bride.
Not even close to the perfect image they wanted.
My husband extends his hand.
My lover grips my arm, a warning not to do anything stupid.
A thousand thoughts crash in my head at once.
And what I want most, what I hate myself for wanting, is to stay with this obsessive, dangerous man.
That’s why I pull away hard and walk toward my husband.
“We’ll see each other at dinner later,” I tell Carlota, steady, cold. “Maybe then we’ll finally be introduced properly.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a first dance with my husband, and a dress to change.”
I leave without looking back.
Romero says something to Damien; voices rise behind me, harsh, threatening.
He’s probably warning him to stay away from me.
I smile. And head straight for the nearest drink table. I pat the folds of my gown, searching for the little pills I hid there.
Thank you, past Leonor.
Two pills downed with champagne. I don’t care how I look, all eyes are on me anyway.
Leonora appears and tries to fix me up, fussing over details that no longer matter. I give her a brief rundown of what just happened. Lucius joins us soon after.
Minutes later, all of them come out of the balcony pretending nothing happened.
Damien’s eyes meet mine, furious, blazing. Carlota grips his arm, whispers something, and he turns to leave.
That killer stare stays on me until the last second before he disappears. Probably to keep himself from doing something worse than trying to kidnap the bride, again.
Romero, my husband, what a joke, comes to fetch me. He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor.
I smile. And then I laugh.
He signals the orchestra. We begin to dance, perfectly synchronized, eerily calm.
“You chose to marry me,” he says. “You didn’t run off with my son. I assume that means you made your choice. You chose well, darling. I’ll do my part too.”
He kisses me right there, in the middle of the floor, no warning, no hesitation. Who’s going to stop him? A husband has every right to kiss his wife, doesn’t he?
“Want a pill?” I ask, already pulling them from my hidden pocket, offering him one.
He cups my face, kisses me again, then drags me toward the bar. He orders whiskey. He downs it with the pills in one graceful motion.
Maybe the drugs are kicking in, or maybe it’s the champagne on an empty stomach. I was so nervous that I couldn't even eat earlier.
“Want to get out of here?” he asks.
“It's what I want most right now,” I answer.
We walk hand in hand through the golden crowd, a pair of accomplices wearing wedding rings. We get into a car, drive to the next building over, a penthouse suite.
I run to the balcony, taking in the view. The garden lights shimmer below, the hotel glowing gold.
It’s beautiful.
A perfect lie.
Back inside, he’s pouring another whiskey, half the bottle already gone. There’s a minibar too; I grab the first bottle I see, twist it open, take a long drink.
“Your son’s worried about what you might do to me,” I say. “And my grandmother’s expecting us for dinner, I think. But I’m done letting people run my life. So… let’s make a deal?”
He loosens his tie and walks toward me. Then he kneels, lifts the hem of my gown, and removes my painful shoes.
For that alone, I almost feel grateful.
“What kind of deal?” he asks, kissing my feet.
“Let’s be honest with each other,” I say. “I want freedom. No games, no manipulation, no mafia bullshit. I married you, you bought me from my father, and you got my yes. So let’s make this work.”
He stands, his face swimming in my blurred vision, maybe it’s the drink, maybe the pills.
He looks more and more like Damien, except for the eyes.
Those don’t glow emerald back at me.
“No betrayal,” he says. “I don’t want you anywhere near my son. Was I clear, wife?”
His hand closes around my throat, possessive, not violent. I nod. Drink again. Almost choke.
He takes the bottle from my hand and drinks too. He must be getting affected by the drink.
His hands are large, warm, firm. I close my eyes as they roam, tracing the lines of my body, finding every ribbon on the dress.
He undoes them, one by one.
I clutch the fabric to keep it from falling. My hair doesn’t hold as well, the pins give up, blue strands spilling over my shoulders.
“I’m starting to like your hair,” he murmurs.
“You’re starting to get wasted,” I reply, stepping back.
This is my goddamn wedding night. I’ll do whatever I want with it. To hell with Damien. To hell with my grandmother.
I let the dress fall.