Page 64 of Marriage of Revenge

And would I forgive myself if I were him?

The waves crash against cliffs in the distance, their rhythm matching the violence in my chest. Nature's own funeral march for the girl I used to be.

His mother's voice that day... No. My father's words when he... Stop. I can't let myself remember. Can't open that door or everything else will come flooding in.

Not when I have to walk down that aisle.

"Time to go, Ballerina Piccola." My father's voice cuts through the room as he dismisses Naomi with a wave. That old nickname, another one - once sweet as sugar, now bitter as betrayal. Back when I thought he hung the stars, back when I believed in heroes and happy endings.

But fairy tales don't usually show the monster wearing your father's face. Don't show how he'll smile while he trades your life for power, how he'll use childhood endearments while he chains you to nightmares. The truth of him is worse than any Beast in any story - because he wears love like a mask, calls cage keys protection, and expects gratitude while he buries his blade.

The waves crash outside, nature's own warning. But it's too late for warnings now.

Too late for anything but survival.

When I step toward him, toward the fate he's written in my blood, I see the truth. He doesn't regret any of it. Would orchestrate this same dance again without missing a beat.

I mourn for her now - that girl who thought her father hung the moon. She died somewhere between his first betrayal and this moment, leaving behind someone harder. Colder.

Someone who finally sees the puppet master's strings.

I inhale deeply, but roses and lilies can't mask the scent of fear and false promises. Everything's just set dressing - the flowers, the dress, the perfect lighting. Props in a production where everyone knows their lines except me.

When I step out, there's no wishing on stars or dreaming of rescue. Those belong to stories with happy endings, not to girls being traded like chess pieces.

The chapel waits, tucked away in Antonio's compound like a secret too dark for sunlight. Music starts playing, but it's muffled under the sound of my own pulse counting down to surrender.

My father's grip on my arm feels like steel wrapped in silk - gentle enough to maintain appearances, firm enough to remind me I'm still his to give away.

Each step down the aisle marks another heartbeat of inevitability. The guests blur into a sea of predator's smiles until my eyes find Antonio's. The world narrows to just us - to scars and secrets, to kisses that taste like threats, to a future written in revenge instead of romance.

This is our fairy tale - Beauty and the Beast, but no one's getting transformed by love.

We're both already monsters.

He commands the altar like a dark prince who stormed heaven - no wedding suit, just his signature jeans molded to powerfulthighs and a shirt that hugs every muscle earned in violence. Pure rebellion wrapped in lethal grace. The right side of his face catches light like polished sin, while the left maps destruction in burned flesh and knife scars - a testament to survival written in ruined skin. It's so perfectly Antonio - turning even our wedding into a statement of defiance.

When those thunderous eyes find mine through the veil, electricity arcs between us sharp as blade edges, igniting things I should have burned away by now. His hands clench at his sides, and I wonder which urge he's fighting - the need to grab me, claim me, make me his? Or the desire to wrap those strong fingers around my throat and squeeze until revenge tastes like victory?

The way he watches me feels like that kiss in his room - all hunger and hatred tangled into something that burns hotter than either should. His gaze strips me bare, peeling away pretense until I'm raw beneath it. That slight tilt of his scarred face dares me to flinch, to show weakness, but god help me - the mapped destruction of his skin only makes me want to trace each line with fingertips, with lips, with whatever it takes to understand the man who rose from flames.

But the darkness he's nursing, the revenge he's crafted into armor - it leaves no room for the way my pulse still races when he looks at me like this. Like I'm prey he can't wait to devour, like he wants to break me and claim me in the same breath.

His mother... maybe he's not entirely wrong, but if he knew what really happened that day... if he understood why I...if maybe I can show him that she could be alive… Maybe he lied about those pictures. Maybe…

"Don't stop." My father's command slices through memory, and I realize I've frozen mid-step. Whispers ripple through the chapel like snakes. Antonio's smile curves sharp as a blade, drinking in every second of my hesitation.

Because this is what he wants - to watch me dance to their strings until I break.

The air changes when I reach him - thick with possibility and threat. His scent hits me like a storm rolling in off the Mediterranean - expensive cologne mixed with salt air and something darker, something purely Antonio. It promises danger and desire, violence wrapped in victory. Promises me.

I should be terrified. Instead, my treacherous body leans toward him like a compass finding north, like a dancer following music she can't resist.

Meeting his eyes this close feels like standing on stage before the music starts - that moment of anticipation before everything changes. The weight of unsaid words, of accusations and lies, of kisses that taste like warfare, hangs between us.

"Don't forget where you come from," my father hisses, threat wrapped in ceremony. Antonio's answering smile curves like a blade - half dare, half declaration of war. The Beast baring teeth at the dragon, neither backing down.

The priest begins, but this isn't a wedding.

---