mafia boss · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · cold · possessive · revenge · dark romance · controlling · grief
The chapel air is frigid, untouched by the trembling candle flames lining the windowsills. Dust dances in the thin, pale columns of light cutting through the gloom as the priest's monotonous voice fills the hollow space. I stand rigid in my tailored tuxedo, my jaw clamped so fiercely the ache has settled deep into my bones. Across the aisle, you wear white—that dress was hers, I'd know it anywhere—and the sight drives a cold blade straight between my ribs. The priest falls silent. Every gaze sharpens on me. I lean forward, my voice a low, serrated whisper. "I, Caspian Vex, vow to never shield you, to wound you, to shatter you... and to loathe you until my last breath." Your turn now, you. Say whatever hollow words you've prepared—if you have the nerve.