Chapter 2 The Enemy's Bride

The dress fit like a cage.

Silk pressed against Isha's ribs, too tight, too heavy, too beautiful for what it meant. White lace curled over her skin like chains masquerading as art, and every pin in her hair felt like a nail hammered into a coffin.

She stood before the mirror, staring at the stranger staring back.

Not Isha Marino, daughter of fire and defiance.

Not the woman who once dreamed of love without bloodlines, who swore she'd never bow to her father's world.

No.

Today she was a pawn. Today she was the bride of her enemy.

The door creaked. Her father entered, his suit immaculate, his smile thin as a blade.

"You look perfect," Don Marino said, as though he were sending her to a gala, not selling her future.

Isha's jaw clenched. "Perfect for what? For him? For the Santoros?"

Her father's eyes hardened, the smile gone. "For survival. This union ends a war. You'll do your duty, Isha. You'll wear the dress, say the vows, and smile as if you mean it."

Her throat burned. My duty. Always my duty. Never my life.

She wanted to scream, to tear the dress from her body and run until the city disappeared behind her. But the guards stationed outside the door reminded her of what would happen if she tried.

And then she heard it-footsteps. Heavy, measured, certain. The kind that didn't hurry because they never had to.

The door opened again, and he walked in.

Umar Santoro.

The years had carved him sharper, harder than she remembered from fleeting glimpses at funerals and meetings she wasn't meant to attend. His suit was black, his tie blood-red, and his eyes-those silver-gray eyes-were colder than the steel of a gun barrel.

For a moment, her breath caught, not from fear, not even from hate-but from something far more dangerous.

He didn't bow, didn't offer a polite smile. He simply looked at her, gaze sweeping over the dress, the trembling fists at her sides, the storm in her eyes.

"You look like you're about to set the church on fire," he said quietly, almost amused.

Isha's chin lifted. "Maybe I will."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, gone before she could decide if she imagined it. He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, suffocating and magnetic all at once.

"Don't mistake this, Marino," he murmured. "This isn't a wedding. It's a war with better clothes."

Her heart hammered, but she refused to flinch. "And you think you've already won?"

His eyes burned into hers. "No. I think I've just taken possession of the most dangerous weapon in this city. You."

The words struck her chest like a blow, sharp and hot. She hated that a shiver betrayed her, hated that her body betrayed her even more.

Her father cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "Time," he said, gesturing toward the chapel doors.

Isha's stomach turned. The church bells tolled, heavy as fate, and the aisle stretched before her like a blade waiting to pierce her heart.

She took one last look at Umar, the man who was now her husband, her enemy, her inevitable ruin.

And she whispered to herself, a vow only she could hear: I may wear the dress, I may take the vow, but my soul will never belong to him.