Page 9 of Declan

Together, we wrestled me into the dress—my masterpiece. It is black as night, clinging to every curve. The mermaid silhouette draws attention to all the right places. The long, dramatic veil trails behind me, and the bouquet of black roses in my hands completes the look.

This isn’t a wedding. It’s a funeral. And that’s exactly how I’m treating it.

Selma, stunning in her black gown, adjusts my veil. She’s my only bridesmaid by choice. My father expected my sisters to stand beside me, but I’d rather walk down the aisle naked than have them next to me.

A knock at the door sends my heart into overdrive. “Miss Morelli, it’s time,” the assistant calls from the other side.

I take one last look in the mirror, but the sight of my reflection blurs as tears well in my eyes. Not because of fear or nerves, those I’ve already accepted, but because my mom isn’t here. If she was, things would be different. She’d have been my anchor in this storm.

Warm hands wrap around my waist, grounding me. “I love you,” Selma whispers, her voice soft and steady. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

I hug her back, a shaky breath leaving my lips as I push the emotions down. When the door swings open, the hallway is empty except for Declan’s guards. Their shocked expressions are priceless, exactly what I wanted.

As Selma and I walk through, I can feel the weight of the upcoming ceremony pressing down on me with every step.

The mansion is just as suffocating as I remember, every inch of it screaming wealth and control. The polished dark wood floors reflect the dim glow from the chandeliers overhead, casting long shadows against the deep oak walls.

Everything feels too heavy, too formal. Even the air smells rich, like old money and the faintest hint of expensive cologne.

My heels click against the floor, echoing down the wide corridor lined with crimson curtains that sweep dramatically from floor to ceiling.

Selma walks beside me, her face set in determination, holding my veil like we’re marching toward some twisted battle. I catch sight of the beautiful gardens and lake through the windows, but even the beautiful sight doesn’t calm the nerves crawling up my spine.

Flowers, red and white roses, lilies, and carnations are everywhere. Tall vases overflowing with them sit like silent sentries along the walls, the scent cloying as it mixes with the polish of the wood.

Even the chairs lining the hallway are tied with red velvet ribbons and white satin bows, like everything in this damn place has to match.

When we get to the doors of the ceremony room, they loom in front of me, impossibly tall, polished to a gleaming perfection that makes me want to smear my hands down them, just to mess up their pristine surface. I take a breath as the doors swing open.

Selma positions herself behind me, holding the veil, her confident energy giving me strength. “We’ve got this,” she murmurs, and I nod, exhaling the tension in my chest. The music starts, a classical piece I don’t recognize. If it were up to me, I’d be walking to Metallica.

The doors to the ceremony room creak open slowly, and I take my first step inside; it’s like stepping into a scene from a nightmare dressed in luxury.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting shards of light over everything below. The walls, dark and rich like the rest of the mansion, are draped in a heavy red fabric that falls in carefully placed folds.

Roses dominate the room, towering arrangements of them flanking the aisle, nestled in marble vases with delicate gold detailing. The contrast of the blood-red against the stark white petals feels like a punch to the gut. It’s beautiful in the coldest, most formal way, just like everything the Callaghans stand for.

I swallow hard, the knot tightening in my stomach.

The collective gasp from the crowd is so loud as I start to walk in that it nearly drowns out the music.

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

“What is she wearing?” another voice whispers, horrified.

“Is she insane?” a third mutter, scandalised.

I smile to myself, finally feeling right at home in the chaos. Making people uncomfortable and shocking them is what I do best. But as I lift my gaze, my confidence falters for a split second.

There he is, standing at the altar. Declan Callaghan. Tall and imposing, in a tailored black suit, his white shirt crisp beneath the black tie. His dark eyes bore into me, narrowed, assessing.

My pulse quickens, and I silently thank the layers of makeup hiding the flush creeping up my neck.

Shit.

Chapter 3

Declan

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