Ivy’s POV

My life ended the night my father told me I was to marry Adrian DeLuca.

The Adrian DeLuca.

He didn’t say it with tenderness, nor did he bother pretending it was for my happiness. He said it the way a man might announce that a house had been sold or a car traded away—businesslike, cold, final.

“You will marry him, Ivy,” my father said, his voice carrying the unshakable authority that had ruled my childhood. “It is the only way to settle what I owe. Do this for the family.”

Do this for the family. Those words had been his shield for years. Every mistake, every debt, every reckless choice—he always wrapped them in that phrase. But what he really meant was: do this for me. And I always paid the price.

That night, I remember the silver fork slipping from my fingers, clattering against the porcelain plate. I remember staring at him, stunned, waiting for some cruel smile to break across his face, to tell me it was a joke. But his eyes were sharp and unyielding. No joke. No mercy.

I was twenty-one years old, and I had just been sold.

Adrian DeLuca. The name itself twisted something in my stomach. I didn’t know him well, but I knew enough. Enough to fear him.

Months earlier, he had attended one of my father’s dinners. The room had been thick with smoke and the sound of men’s laughter—low, heavy, self-satisfied. I had been paraded in front of them, told to serve wine as though I were no more than an ornament.

Adrian had taken the glass from me, his fingers brushing mine. His smile was small, sharp, and his eyes—dark, calculating—held none of it.

“You pour well,” he’d said, his tone mocking. “Maybe you’ll make a good wife after all.”

I hadn’t answered. I couldn’t. His gaze was too heavy, too certain. It was the gaze of a man who had already decided I belonged to him.

Later, I overheard him in my father’s study. His voice was low but carried enough for me to catch the edges of his words. He spoke about punishing someone who had betrayed him, not with anger, but with detached precision. To him, cruelty was strategy, as natural as breathing.

That was Adrian DeLuca. Cold. Calculated. A man who didn’t need to shout to control a room. Fear did the shouting for him.

And now, he was to be my husband.

I wanted to hate my father more than I already did. But sitting here, wrapped in layers of suffocating silk and lace, hate felt too small to contain what I felt. Instead, there was only emptiness—an ache so deep it hollowed me out.

The lace clung to my skin like a funeral shroud. My hair had been pinned so tightly it ached, and the veil hanging over me pressed down like chains. When I looked into the mirror, I no longer saw Ivy Moretti. I saw a pawn. A sacrifice dressed in white.

The cathedral bells began to toll, each note heavy, vibrating through my bones.

A knock at the door. “It’s time,” one of my father’s men said, his voice flat, expressionless.

I rose on trembling legs. When the doors opened, my father was waiting, sharp in his finest suit. His smile was proud, triumphant. For him, this was victory.

“Hold your head high,” he whispered as he took my arm. “Remember, you’re saving us all.”

Saving us. He meant himself. He always meant himself.

The cathedral doors groaned as they opened, spilling light across the aisle. A hush fell over the crowd before gasps rippled through the pews. Every eye turned to me. Their stares pressed against my skin—greedy, curious, judging. They weren’t seeing a bride. They were watching a deal being sealed in flesh and vows.

The air smelled of incense and polished wood, but beneath it lingered something sour—sweat, nerves, greed. I felt stripped bare under their gazes.

At the altar, Adrian waited. Tall, broad-shouldered, black hair slicked perfectly back. His suit was cut to perfection, but it was his expression that made the air thicken in my lungs. Calm. Cold. Triumphant. He didn’t look at me like a groom looks at his bride. He looked at me like property, something promised long ago that he had finally come to claim.

When my father pressed my hand into Adrian’s, his palm was cool, his grip iron. He didn’t squeeze, but he didn’t let go either. I was caught.

The priest began to speak, his voice heavy with rehearsed words about love, unity, blessing. They slid over me like oil, meaningless and suffocating. My eyes lifted to the crucifix above the altar. I wanted to believe God saw me, that He cared. But all I felt was silence.

Then the priest turned to me.

“Do you, Ivy Moretti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband… until death do you part?”

The words tangled in my throat.

I thought of my father’s threats. Of the bruises still faint on my wrist from the last time I tried to resist. Of Rosa—the only woman who had ever shown me kindness—who would pay the price if I disobeyed.

I thought of Adrian’s mocking smile, the weight of his gaze, the certainty with which he had already claimed me.

And then, for a heartbeat, I thought of freedom. Of running. Of disappearing. The thought was fragile, so fragile it hurt to hold onto it.

“Yes,” I whispered. The word scorched my throat as it left me.

The priest nodded, then turned to Adrian.

“And do you, Adrian DeLuca, take this woman—”

“I do.” His reply was sharp, steady, final.

My pulse pounded so hard it drowned the rest of the priest’s words. His hand lifted, ready to give the final blessing.

This was it.

The end of my freedom.

I bent my head, bracing for the final vow—

And then—

The cathedral doors slammed open, crashing against the stone walls with a force that made the chandeliers tremble.

Gasps tore through the pews. The priest’s words broke off mid-sentence. My veil swung as I turned sharply, my breath freezing in my chest.

A man stood framed in the doorway. Tall. Dark. Dangerous. His presence filled the room like a storm breaking through still air. His eyes were sharp, unyielding, cutting through the crowd until they found me.

Rael Castellano.

The name echoed inside me, my pulse roaring in my ears.

The heir of the Castellano empire. My father’s rival. Adrian’s sworn enemy.

The whispers started instantly, a hiss of voices spreading through the pews like fire through dry grass. Women clutched pearls. Men stiffened. Even Adrian’s expression shifted—barely, but enough to see the tightening of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

Rael stepped forward, slow, deliberate, each footfall echoing against the stone floor. No one tried to stop him. No one dared. His presence was a command in itself.

And as his gaze locked onto mine, something inside me twisted. Fear. Recognition. The sense that the ground beneath my feet had just been ripped away.

My life was about to be torn apart all over again.