Isabella Serrano walks toward me like a fucking reckoning.Her eyes lock onto mine, sparks of anger flashing like lightning in a storm.She moves with a fierce elegance that should be outlawed—chin up, shoulders sharp, spine straighter than the morals in this room.And fuck, I’d marry her twice.Hell, I’d marry her a hundred times if it meant I got to watch her burn tradition down every single time.
My cock throbs beneath my zipper, aching with every step she takes.She is in control.
The older Serrano women turn to stone, clutching their pearls and their opinions.The men sit there, all rotting ego and tradition, glare down their crooked noses like her defiance might infect them.They see her as a problem.A scandal.An insult to their bloodlines and carefully built dynasties.
But all I see is a fucking queen.
She doesn’t smile when she gets to me.
Up close, she’s even more threatening.
I lean in, my voice soft.“You clean up nice.”
Her lips barely shift.“Go fuck yourself.”
And I smile because this is the woman I’m marrying.Not some obedient bride dressed in white and paraded through tradition.
Everyone here expected a girl they could shape.Something gentle.Obedient.
Instead, they got this.
And now she’s fucking mine.
The priest fumbles his lines as if he’s afraid the room might collapse if he breathes wrong.His voice wavers, hands trembling just enough to make the holy book shake.
Arturo Serrano’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken his teeth.He’s sporting that smile—the polished, public one—but his left eye twitches every time Isabella refuses to perform.
Isabella doesn’t smile at all.
Not during the priest’s mumbling of the vows or when I slide the ring onto her finger, its gold cold against her skin.And especially not when the words “you may now kiss the bride” fall into the silence.
I lean in, and the entire damn room holds its breath.
Isabella tilts her head just enough to allow the kiss if she wants it.Just enough to play her part.
But at the last second, she turns.
My lips brush her cheek instead of her mouth.
Gasps echo through the room.A man mutters a prayer.
“Isabella,” her father snaps.
But she doesn’t so much as blink.
Her chin lifts, her shoulders square, and then she turns to face the crowd.Five hundred people are packed into this overdone palace of gold and crystal, all watching, waiting for the little obedient bride to fall in line.
She doesn’t.
Her gaze sweeps over them.It’s a message without words.She is not an obedient bride.She is not a girl who will bow, smile, or behave for the comfort of men who think they own her.And anyone who tries to break her can go fuck themselves.
And shit, if I didn’t want her before… I damn sure want her more now.
Arturo Serrano quickly rises from his chair, the legs screeching against the marble.The noise pierces the silence.Everyone’s heads snap toward him.No one speaks or even breathes.
He stalks forward, his face furious, the smile he wore for the cameras now gone, exposing the tyrant beneath the tailored suit.His shoes hit the floor with deliberate, thunderous steps, each one a threat in leather soles.
His men shift behind him, tense, alert.
