Page 14 of Queen
The Negotiation: Masked Surrender
The door closes behind me with a soft click. It might as well be a prison lock.
The room is cold—not for lack of heat, but because power hangs heavy in the air. Mahogany walls polished to a shine. Gilded edges that drip with arrogance. Ceilings high enough to make anyone feel small. And everywhere, the scent of leather, ash, and control.
On the desk between us lies a contract. Thick. Leather-bound. Open to a page of neatly inked clauses. The words glisten like wet oil under the lamplight. Scripted lies dressed up as legacy.
Emiliano doesn’t sit. He stands tall behind the chair, one hand resting on its carved back, his eyes locked on mine. Always watching. Always weighing. The silence is worse than any words.
His consigliere clears his throat. His voice is gravel. “This agreement merges all Rivas assets under shared legal control. Mrs. Rivas”—he glances at me, but his gaze slides off quickly, like he’s afraid to hold it—“you will have decision-making rights within the estate. Appearances will be managed through the family office. There are terms for discretion. For travel. For… obedience.”
That last word lodges in my throat like a bone.
I don’t respond. My gaze is fixed on the contract. The paper looks sterile, civilized. But the truth bleeds through the ink. This isn’t an agreement. It’s a noose dipped in gold.
Emiliano waits. He doesn’t rush me. He never does. That’s his game. Let silence do the strangling.
I force myself into the chair opposite him. My spine doesn’t bend. I won’t give him that satisfaction. My fingers brush the pen, steady despite the scream in my chest.
The consigliere drones on, outlining protections, rights, responsibilities. As if this empire ever followed rules. I don’t hear most of it. Because the only voice in this room that matters hasn’t spoken a word.
Emiliano doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just waits. His presence fills the space, heavier than the air itself. He knows I’ll sign. He knows I don’t have a fucking choice. And the worst part? He’s right.
For Guido. Always for Guido.
I flip the pages without reading them. What’s the point? These aren’t terms. They’re shackles. My hand shakes once as I reach the signature line. Then I steel it.
Zina Moretti Rivas.
I press the pen down hard, carving my name into the page like a wound. The ink pools and shines, binding me tighter than chains.
When I set the pen down, my voice is low. “Blood, not ink, would be more honest.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A threat. “Next time, I’ll bring a blade.”
My jaw clenches. He loves this. My surrender dressed as compliance. My silence mistaken for peace.
I rise without waiting for dismissal. “Are we done?”
His gaze slides down my body, slow and deliberate. Not a man admiring a bride. A predator admiring the trap he’s built.
“For now,” he says softly.
The words crawl under my skin, sharp as knives. He knows I won’t run. He knows fear won’t drive me away. And that’s what makes him dangerous. That’s what makes me furious.
The Vows: A Performance of Power
The parlor is already full when I’m escorted inside—three of Emiliano’s top lieutenants stand along the perimeter, dressed in black, faces carved with the kind of smirks that say they’ve already decided how this ends.
There’s no chapel. No priest. No flowers. Nothing that belongs to a wedding. Only blood-colored drapes heavy ascoffins, a rug that reeks of history, and a long table cleared bare as if the space itself understands it isn’t here to celebrate love—it’s here to witness surrender.
Emiliano waits at the head of the room. His hands clasped behind his back, posture regal, expression unreadable except for the sharp glint in his eyes. That glint says it all—this isn’t about vows, it’s about dominance. Not a union. A spectacle.
I pause in the doorway, forcing myself not to falter. My heels strike marble in slow, deliberate clicks as I cross the room. Every step feels heavier, like walking deeper into quicksand.
“Is this really necessary?” My voice is even, sharp as a blade hidden under silk. I want them to hear me, but I don’t want them to see me flinch.
His jaw tightens. “You want protection. This is what it costs.”
