Lucy

I was summoned to the grand room of the mansion, a space filled with opulence and history. My father awaited me, sitting in his customary spot behind a massive, polished desk that seemed to dominate the room. Above him hung a portrait of a distant ancestor, Great Great Grandfather Adam, whose piercing gaze seemed to follow me as I approached. “Come in, child,” he called, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

My heart raced, and my jaw dropped in disbelief. How could this be happening? At just 20 years old, I found myself facing a man who was only 31. A man I had learned to resent since childhood, a man who felt like an adversary rather than a figure of authority. Marriage? To him? The very thought sent a chill down my spine.

I hesitated but stepped forward, compelled by the weight of his gaze. He gestured toward an ornate chair, its rich upholstery inviting yet daunting. As I sat down, a storm of questions swirled in my mind.

“I have something very important to discuss with you,” he began, his tone suddenly grave. “I have arranged your marriage to the son of our rival, Alexander Be Luce. The wedding will take place in just two days.”

Once again, my jaw hung open in shock. How was this even possible? The reality of the situation struck me like a thunderclap—bound to a man I had silently loathed for years, thrust into a union that felt more like a punishment than a promise. Why was my father making me do this?

His voice sliced through the heavy silence like a knife, commanding yet laden with authority. “You must go shopping at once. As my daughter and the heir to the divan mafia gang, it is your duty to comply with my wishes and strengthen our political position by forging this alliance.”

As the last syllable hung in the air, I felt the weight of his words pressing down on me. “But father…” I started to protest, only to be interrupted by his steely gaze. “There’s no room for ‘but’ in your situation,” he snapped, the tension in the room palpable. “We are in a precarious position, and you are an asset. You will do whatever I ask.”.

My father was a deeply selfish man, unable to find fulfillment in his relationships. He failed to keep three of his wives happy, each meeting a tragic end—one lived her final days in misery, another succumbed to despair and took her own life, while the last perished during childbirth, giving life to me. It’s clear he never loved my mother nor had any genuine affection for the others who came before her. How could I possibly think he would care for me? He’s a monster, driven solely by his insatiable thirst for power and wealth. To him, I am just a tool, an object he can cast aside whenever it suits him. I am nothing more than a means to an end—an expendable asset in his quest for dominance.

I navigate my existence in the shadows of his tyranny, understanding that compliance is my only means of survival. If I dare to defy him, I risk the same fate as my elder sister, a haunting memory that lingers in my mind. Her life ended too soon, marred by the dark circumstances that led to her brutal demise at the hands of our father. I shudder at the thought of her struggles, knowing all too well that in a world where love is absent, the price of rebellion can be fatal.

**Lucy**

I bolted into my room, leaping onto the bed with a heavy thud, face down, and surrendered to my grief. I sobbed into my pillow, the words pouring out of me like a torrential downpour. "Why me? Does he hate me that much?" I cried, my voice muffled by the fabric. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath me. My heart ached with a desperation so profound, I wished for nothing more than to disappear into thin air. Why was it always me? Why was this happening to me? I had done everything in my power to avoid trouble, to steer clear of any scandal that could tarnish our family's reputation in the mafia. In our household, honor was everything, a sacred unspoken rule, and I felt the weight of my family’s legacy pressing down on me. I was terrified of ending up like my sister—lost to darkness. Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t my father see that love is not something to be forced, especially not after experiencing a loveless marriage himself?

Suddenly, a loud knock jolted me from my thoughts. I turned my puffy eyes toward the door and managed to croak, “Who is it?” From the other side, a small voice, one of my mini maids, replied, “Miss, the driver is waiting. He’s here to take you to the wedding dress shop, and Maggie will be joining you.” Ah, Maggie—my personal maid, my confidante, my unwavering support. I felt a flicker of hope at the thought of her presence. Maggie was my saving grace.

I sat up, hastily wiping the remnants of my tears from my face. I instructed Tiff, my maid, to send the ladies in so we could get ready and asked her to dress Maggie in something suitable for the occasion. Tiff nodded obediently and swept out of the room.

Moments later, Maggie burst in, her expression a mixture of concern and shock. “Lucy, what happened to your face? Why are you crying?” she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine worry. Feeling the floodgates open, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. With a quivering voice, I confessed, “Maggie, my dad is forcing me to marry.” Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell agape. “What? Who are you marrying?” I sobbed, “Alexander.” Struggling to comprehend, she furrowed her brow. “Alexander? Alexander who?”

“Alexander De Luca,” I managed to choke out. The moment I spoke his name, her expression shifted, a blend of horror and compassion. “Alexander De Luca? The De Luca of the mafia?” I nodded, confirming her worst fears. She covered her face with her hands, sinking into disbelief. “Lucy, I’m so sorry for you. I feel utterly sad for you as a friend. I’ve heard terrible things about Alexander—people say he’s cruel, that he revels in brutality. Why would your father want to marry you off to a psychopath?”

Before I could respond, another knock resonated through the stillness of the room. “Miss, the driver is waiting, and all the ladies are here to prepare you. Shall I send them in?” I nodded, my heart heavy with resignation.

The three women entered, their energy contrasting with my turmoil as they readied us for the day ahead. With a sigh, I forced myself to follow them out to the wedding dress shop.

It was a long, exhausting day, and as I finally found a dress, I realized it felt more like a shroud than a celebration. It wasn’t a wedding; it felt like a funeral. The dress, far from being beautiful, encapsulated my feelings of confinement and despair. It didn’t represent love; it embodied a cruel mandate. I felt like a bird trapped in a cage, one owner passing me to the next, and I couldn’t help but think: this wasn’t a wedding; it was a funeral.

**Lucy**

I sat on the plush sofa in the bridal room, the layers of my heavy white gown cascading over my knees and feet like a billowing cloud. The fabric enveloped me so completely that I felt half-hidden beneath its weight, as if the garment itself were a living thing. Beside me, Maggie perched with a sorrowful expression etched across her features. She lifted her gaze and locked it onto mine. “You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, but also the most unlucky one. I hope you and your husband learn to love each other as you journey forward.” I couldn't help but chuckle, the sound a mix of disbelief and irony. “As if that demon would ever love me.”

Just then, my father-in-law, Adam, and my mother-in-law, Charlotte, made their entrance. Charlotte rushed towards me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Look at this stunning bride! I can hardly believe you’re going to be my daughter-in-law. I am so lucky to have you!” The warmth of her words washed over me, but it felt strangely hollow. Adam chimed in, “Indeed, she is the most beautiful.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me to sink deeper into my thoughts. A wave of disbelief crashed over me; these were the people I was marrying into. They cared little for my feelings; I was merely a chess piece in their elaborate game, just a pawn for these mafia bosses.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Charlotte gently placed her hand on my shoulder. “It’s time for you to go out; the ceremony is about to start.” Tears welled in my eyes, and I whispered, “Yes, ma’am.” She quickly interjected, “I am not ‘ma’am’ to you; I am ‘Mom.’ From now on, I want you to call me ‘Mom,’ as I am your new mother, and I promise to take care of you for the rest of our lives. You are the daughter I’ve never had.” Her hands, warm and reassuring, gripped mine tightly, and she stroked them softly. “You are going to be so loved, Lucy.”

Moments later, my father entered the room, his presence commanding yet comforting. He extended his hand toward me, signaling for me to take it as he prepared to lead me down the aisle. We began our slow, deliberate walk together, and as the grand doors swung open, a sea of expectant faces turned towards me. I felt a tightness in my chest, as if a vise were squeezing my heart, and I struggled to lift my head, the weight of the moment overwhelming. My father guided me up the aisle with gentle determination, and I felt a firm hand reach toward me. It must have been Alexander, my groom, waiting at the altar. I grasped his hand, and he drew me close, my eyes still fixed on the floor, grappling with the reality of my impending marriage.

The pastor’s voice cut through my fog of thoughts as he began reciting the vows. “Alexander, will you take Lucy Devon as your wife and cherish her until death do you part?” His voice was strong and commanding, and he replied with a resolute, “I do.” I watched the pastor turn toward me, and when he asked, “Do you, Lucy Devon, take Alexander DeLuca as your husband to love, to hold, and to cherish for eternity?” my voice trembled, a sob threatening to escape. It felt as if invisible shackles had been cast on me, binding me to him with chains forged from duty and expectation. I sniffled, then whispered, “I do.”

As Alexander slid the ring onto my finger, it felt like a weighty anchor, binding me further to a future I had not chosen. In turn, I placed his ring on his finger, my heart pounding in my chest.

When my eyes finally lifted from the hem of my gown, I noticed two hands reaching to lift my veil with gentle reverence. The pastor concluded, “Now you may lift the veil and kiss your bride.” As I momentarily returned my gaze to the ground, the surreal nature of the ceremony thickened the air around me, and I braced myself as the day continued to unfold.