Chapter 22
Isabella
My future husband waits just outside, and my stomach is in my throat. I'd rather receive a hot-sauce enema twice a day for the rest of my life than walk down an aisle toward him.
But I have no choice.
Any illusion of a choice vanished when I looked back at Vance, pleading with my eyes as the Vendettis' security prepared to haul me away. He only threw me a casual smile and dropped his gaze. I thought there was more between us than that. I clearly saw something that wasn't there.
Someone knocks, and my father's jovial voice creeps through the door and mocks me. It's time. My life is fucking over and he's as happy as can be. Why doesn't he marry Antonio if he thinks it's such a good idea?
I open the door and he takes me into his arms and plants an alcohol-infused kiss on my cheek. Instead of hiding the despair on my face, I wear it like a badge. I want him to see it. It won't make a difference—feelings don't belong in this business—but I refuse to don my plastic smile before I have to.
"Don't fuck this up," he says with a gentle smack of my cheek.
I want to scream that this is already fucked up. An asteroid is headed straight for my world, and nothing can stop the impending destruction. But what does it matter now? A nuke already decimated the entire population of my heart when Vance let me go instead of fighting for me.
I know my worth. I deserve to be fought for.
My father holds out his arm, and I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow like the dutiful daughter I am. Birds twitter above our heads as we step into the courtyard. It sounds more like a dirge to me—a sorrowful lamentation for the loss of all that I am and all that I could have been. This is the day I lay my hopes and dreams to rest. A black dress would better match my mood than this white lie I wear.
Pink rose petals wilt under my strappy heels as I stand at the head of the center aisle and spot Antonio. A tight frown tugs at the corners of his thin lips, even once he sees me. He swats at a group of gnats dive-bombing his sweaty face.
I look away from him and study the two very different families drawn together by money and greed. Two groups of people willing to sell me off to the highest bidder. I am the prize heifer being led to slaughter.
My feet long to turn in the opposite direction and carry me away from this nightmare, but I will them forward. Memories of Vance flash and flicker with every step I take on that petal-strewn path. His eyes. His smirk. The way he touches me. The ways I want him to touch me.
My thoughts wrap around Vance, cradling him and keeping his memory safe. His face is the only one I see until my father releases my arm and gives me to the man who doesn't deserve me.
Antonio's eyes lock on my tits. He isn't concerned with the effort a team of people put into my hair and makeup. He only cares that my boobs are elevated to high heaven. Usually, I like it when a man appreciates my assets, but not right now. Right now, I hate it. Vance always looked me in my eyes before eye-fucking me.
I zone out as the family priest drones on about the importance and sanctity of marriage. I pretend I'm anywhere else. Being burned alive would be less painful than this.
When the priest asks if Antonio accepts me as his wife, he says, "Yep." That's how invested he is. The priest has to encourage him to say a proper "I do."
"And Isabella, do you take Antonio Vendetti to be your wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and, forsaking all others, be faithful only to him for so long as you both shall live?"
The two simple words stick in my throat like chewed gum on hot pavement. Antonio's eyes narrow.
So I force out the words. "I do."
I do not. How the fuck can I forsake all others when all I want is another?
We exchange rings, and the priest gives us the command to kiss. I do my duty and remain in place as Antonio leans toward me, but I'm screaming inside. His greedy hands grip my hips and pull me closer. His poisonous lips paint mine with sludge as his cold, sluggish tongue tries to pry its way into my mouth. I pull away, refusing what I can while I can. When he takes me to our marital bed tonight, I will no longer have the voice to say no.
The journey down the aisle and the family photography session are a blur. I feel as if I've just received a terminal diagnosis and I'm running on autopilot. Breathing and nodding. That's all I can do.
When we sit for our meal in the reception area, I pick at my food and imagine Vance beside me, also picking at his food because he'd be as miserable as I am right now if he were here. But he's not.
After having him by my side for so long, I feel as if I've lost a part of myself. I grip my tongue between my teeth and bite down to keep from crying.
Antonio jabs my thigh beneath the table. "Can you at least pretend you're happy to be my wife?" he whispers.
I flash the best smile I can muster, pick up a forkful of filet mignon, and shove it into my mouth before I can tell him how I really feel.
Also, fuck him. It's an arranged marriage. Not everyone feels joy when forced to marry someone they didn't choose for themselves. Even when both parties are excited about the situation, there are still awkward moments and misery to be had.
Fuck, I hate this. I almost wish I'd never met Vance. If my heart didn't know what it was missing, I could have at least looked forward to getting laid for the first time. Now I want to avoid that moment completely.
I'm a vegan who craves a juicy steak, but I'm forced to sit in front of a plate of limp asparagus for the rest of my life. I glance at Antonio and feel a twinge of guilt for my thoughts. Limp asparagus is a bit harsh. For the asparagus.
I've secretly hoped Vance would swoop in and save me from this ordeal, but I think it's time to acknowledge the facts. My dark knight won't be riding in to carry me away to safety. I am alone on this battlefield, caught in a war that is not of my making. I have fallen on the sword for my family, and now I only have to lie down and die. The birds were right to sing a dirge. This is my funeral.