Chapter 9
(85%)
London greeted me like a funeral march in silk gloves.
The jet landed under a sky choked with gray, rain threatening but never falling- like even the clouds were waiting to see how this played out. My stilettos touched the private terminal’s runway with the weight of prophecy. No press. No fanfare. Just silence, wealth, and the faint static of something about to burn.
A matte black Rolls met me curbside. The driver never asked my name.
The hotel was a glass castle stitched into the skyline. I took the penthouse, of course. Only stayed an hour. I didn’t need rest–I needed reflection. And war
paint.
I stood by the window, sipping Cristal straight from the bottle, robe open, bare legs cold against the marble floor. London sprawled below like a kingdom that didn’t know its queen had landed. My phone buzzed with silence–Creed hadn’t. called. Not that I wanted him to. Not that it mattered.
Tonight, I would marry a myth.
And he would watch.
An hour later, another car–this An hour later, another car–this one armored, blacker than judgment–pulled up to the Colombo estate. My father was already there. Of course he was. He couldn’t resist an empire on the cusp of resurrection.
The gates opened with a hiss, iron splitting like jaws, revealing the mansion in all its Gothic arrogance. Towers, turrets, old stone wet from the mist. It looked
more mausoleum than home. Perfect.
Inside, it was candlelight and ceremony. Colombo guards lined the halls, dressed like undertakers with rifles. One of their top lieutenants–a man with a scar through his family crest tattoo–greeted me with a nod.
“Miss Royce. They’re waiting for you upstairs. Your father and Don Enzo are very… pleased.”
Pleased.
My father was glowing like gold–dipped sin when I walked into the private chamber upstairs. He stood beside Enzo Colombo, the patriarch of the half–dead prince I was about to marry.
12:13 Mon, 19 May GM.
당 85%
“My daughter,” my father beamed, grasping my hand like he was shaking hands with fate. “You’ve outdone even my expectations.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” I replied coolly, tugging my hand back. “It’s not a good. look on a man who taught me how to poison first and ask later.”
Enzo Colombo let out a short, dry laugh.
“She is fire,” my father replied proudly.
she’s got fire.”
Makeup artists and stylists swooped in then–Colombo’s elite. Silent, swift, all cheekbones and nerves. They ushered me into a baroque dressing chamber with high mirrors and low lighting. The dress waited for me on a silk–draped mannequin.
It wasn’t white. Of course not.
It was a black bodycon wedding gown with long sleeves, sheer in all the wrong places, slit up to the soul. Hand–stitched/lace, onyx beads, and a veil that looked like smoke spun from vengeance. I slipped into it like it was forged for my bones.
One of the stylists pinned the veil, murmuring in Italian about death and beauty.
And then the door opened.
Alina.
Of course.
w
She walked in like she owned the air, hips swinging in a Valentino suit, her diamond ring catching the chandelier light like a middle finger. Her smile was venom dipped in lip gloss.
“Well, well. The corpse bride herself,” she purred.
I didn’t look at her. Just adjusted my lipstick.
“Come to wish me luck?” I said calmly.
“Luck?” she scoffed. “Scarlett, darling, you’re marrying a coma in couture. This isn’t luck–it’s lunacy.”
I turned then, finally giving her my eyes.
“Funny. I thought lunacy was fucking your sister’s bodyguard and then pretending you’re the victim when he falls in love with you.”
She flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.
“You think this makes you powerful?” she spat. “Playing martyr for a man who
311.59
12:13 Mon, 19 May G
can’t even speak?”
85%1
“I don’t need him to speak,” I said, adjusting my veil. “I need his name. His legacy. And his empire.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re bluffing.”
I smiled.
“I’m married by blood. You? You’re
just tolerated by convenience.” That hit. She opened her mouth, but I waved her off. “You should go, Alina. Wouldn’t want to be late for the ceremony. After all, you wanted a front row seat.”
I watched her storm out in silence. And only when the door clicked shut did I
let the smile fade.
I tilted my head as the makeup artist dabbed a final sweep of highlighter over my cheekbones. I looked like sin reincarnated. The kind you want to touch even when you know it’ll burn.
“That’s enough,” I murmured, waving them off with a flick of my hand. “Leave
me.”
They paused, confused, but no one argued. Smart.
Iwaited until the door clicked shut behind them before reaching for the mirror. Not the pretty vanity one. No–I grabbed my phone, flipped the camera, and stared at the woman looking back..
Black bodycon wedding gown, sculpted like it was molded to every dark. intention I’ve ever had. The veil was sheer onyx, draped over waves of jet hair. My eyes were smoked, winged, wolf–like. My lips? A deep wine–red. Stained, dangerous. The kind of mouth built to start wars and end empires.
I snapped a mirror selfie, thigh popped, veil slightly askew for drama. Then a close–up–lips, lace, the diamond edge of my collarbone. And one from above, sprawled across the velvet lounge like a widow who arranged her husband’s death to match her heels.
Captioned it simply:
‘Til death–or empire–do us part.”
#LaSposa #BlackWedding #BornToBurn #ColomboBride
I hit post.
Within seconds, my screen lit up like a bonfire. Comments pouring in. Some still reeling from the private jet photo. Others calling me an icon, a demon, a goddess. All correct.
3/4 32.41
:::85%會
And then the door opened.
I didn’t turn.
The air shifted. Heavy. Familiar.
I adjusted my veil slightly and stared at my reflection.
“Scarlett,” came the voice. Low. Tight. Controlled. Dangerous.
Creed.
Or Winston, whatever mask he wanted to wear today. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. I didn’t even breathe his name.
He moved closer, slow, like he thought proximity still meant something.
It didn’t.
I leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other as I examined my cuticles like I was bored. I knew he was looking at me–really looking. Studying. every inch of me like he was searching for something he’d lost.
“Piccola,” he said finally, using the endearment like a knife between my ribs.
I smirked.
