Chapter 1 The Dress Wasn't Mine

I never imagined my first kiss would taste like fear.

It wasn't the roses lining the altar, the gold-trimmed veil I'd barely stopped shaking beneath, or the weight of the diamond ring on my trembling finger. It was him. The man standing at the end of the aisle-untouchable, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm in a sea of chaos.

He wasn't supposed to be my husband.

I wasn't supposed to be the bride.

I clutched the bouquet tighter, my knuckles white around the silk ribbon. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain the entire cathedral could hear it echoing off the marble walls. The music had started-soft violins rising with impossible elegance, so disconnected from the frantic lies unraveling inside my chest.

Run.

My instincts screamed it. But my body was frozen. And so was time.

"Maureen," my mother hissed beside me, her smile brittle, rehearsed. "You have to walk. Now. If you stop-if he realizes-it's over. For all of us."

Her words sank like cold needles beneath my skin. She wasn't exaggerating. The man I was walking toward was Andre De Luca-billionaire, power broker, and heir to a ruthless legacy that never forgave betrayal.

And he thought I was my sister.

The real bride.

The one who disappeared last night.

I hadn't slept. Couldn't. The moment Elena vanished-gone without a note, without a phone call-I knew everything in our world was about to collapse. Our family's debt to the De Lucas wasn't just financial; it was personal. Political. Dangerous.

Elena's engagement to Andre had been arranged like a business merger-her hand in marriage for silence, wealth, protection. That was the price of the sins our father committed.

But she ran.

And they needed a bride.

Now.

And I was the only one who could wear her face.

"Elena," the wedding planner whispered as she opened the grand doors.

I swallowed hard.

No. Not Elena.

Maureen. Twenty-one. The invisible sister. The disappointment.

But today I wore her name. Her custom dress. Her perfume.

And I was about to marry the most dangerous man in New York.

I walked down the aisle like a doll being pulled by invisible strings. My limbs moved, but my mind screamed with every step.

Don't trip. Don't speak. Don't shake. Just get to the end.

The guests watched with silent awe-billionaire tycoons, mafia leaders in disguise, senators with bloodstained smiles. This wasn't a wedding. It was a public alliance. A warning.

And at the center of it all was him.

Andre De Luca.

He stood still, dressed in a crisp black suit that looked like it had been cut from the shadows themselves. His jaw was sharp, expression unreadable, his cold steel eyes tracking my every movement like a predator sizing up prey.

I didn't know how to look at him without flinching.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful-silent, devastating, and impossible to survive once caught in the center.

Our eyes met as I reached the altar.

And something in me broke.

His fingers closed around mine. Firm. Possessive. Not tender.

"You're late," he murmured, loud enough for only me to hear.

"I was getting ready," I lied, my voice nearly cracking.

His gaze didn't blink. "You never keep me waiting."

There it was. The control. The dominance. Elena used to mock it-until she stopped laughing altogether.

I nodded mutely.

"Smile," he said.

So I did.

I smiled like a girl stepping into a coffin lined in silk.

The ceremony was brief. Words I barely heard. Vows I didn't mean. A priest who didn't question why my voice trembled every time I said "I do."

Then came the kiss.

He leaned in.

I held my breath.

His lips brushed mine with a coldness that wasn't passion or tenderness-it was possession. Like sealing a deal. Claiming a product.

My knees nearly buckled.

Then it was done.

We were husband and wife.

And he still had no idea who I really was.

The reception blurred.

Champagne flutes clinked.

Laughter echoed from liars dressed in gold.

I smiled for photographs. I danced with strangers. I kept my voice soft, my posture perfect, my lies rehearsed.

All while his eyes tracked me from across the ballroom.

Andre barely spoke.

He didn't need to.

Every time his gaze found mine, I felt it in my bones-a silent command, a warning, a promise.

He would unravel me.

Soon.

It was nearly midnight when the doors to the penthouse suite clicked shut behind us.

I stood frozen in the threshold, still in the wedding gown that didn't belong to me, while Andre unbuttoned his cufflinks in the shadows near the window. The city lights flickered behind him-cold, distant stars.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

"You've been quiet," he finally said, voice low and deliberate.

"I'm tired."

"You were always quiet when you were guilty."

My heart stalled.

"Excuse me?" I asked too quickly.

He turned. Slowly. Intentionally. The air seemed to thicken as his eyes raked over me, not with lust, but scrutiny.

"Are you hiding something, Elena?"

I froze. Then shook my head.

"No."

The lie tasted like blood.

He moved toward me.

Each step a thunderclap in the quiet room.

"You changed your perfume."

Shit.

"I... wanted something different for the wedding."

His hand reached out-brushed my jaw with a gentleness that felt more dangerous than a slap.

"You're shaking."

"No, I'm not-"

He grabbed my chin gently but firmly, forcing my eyes to meet his.

"Don't lie to me."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

"You're my wife now," he whispered, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Which means I own the truth. All of it."

My skin erupted in goosebumps.

"I don't want your body tonight," he said suddenly, letting go of me. "Not until you give me your trust."

I blinked.

He turned his back.

"But you will," he added softly. "Eventually."

And then he disappeared into the master bedroom, leaving me standing alone in silence.

I collapsed onto the guest bed after what felt like hours, still in the damn wedding dress. I didn't cry. I couldn't afford to. Instead, I stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what the hell I had done.

I had married Andre De Luca under a lie so massive it could destroy my family.

And now I was in his world. His house. His bed.

And I had no way out.

The next morning started with a phone call.

Private number. No ID.

I picked it up.

"You made a mistake, Maureen."

My blood turned to ice.

"Elena?" I whispered.

A soft laugh on the other end. Cold. Detached.

"You thought I ran because I was scared?"

My mouth was dry.

"Where are you?"

"You shouldn't have stepped in. You have no idea what you just married."

"Elena, please-"

"Too late," she said. "He'll break you."

The line went dead.