forced to oblige

**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.

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