And then he grabs her.
Fingers grip Isabella’s arm tightly.He doesn’t shout because he doesn’t have to.His fury shows through the lines of his face.His grip speaks volumes: control, punishment, possession.
“This isn’t a game,” he growls softly.“You’re a Serrano.Now act like it.”
I step forward.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The words land like a bomb.
Gasps echo.
Eyes widen.
Every Serrano soldier stiffens.Each man loyal to me instinctively reaches for his weapon, hands hovering at the edge of suits too expensive to hide the violence beneath.
Half the room leans forward—watching, waiting for someone to make the first move.Even the priest looks ready to duck for cover.
Everyone knows what I could do with just a nod.This wedding could turn into a massacre.Blood on the marble.Screams swallowed by the vaulted ceilings.
Arturo’s head turns toward me.He’s not used to being told what to do, especially not in his own fucking house.His eyes burn into mine, dark and cold, the kind of stare that starts wars.I stare right back.Unblinking.Because I didn’t marry his daughter to play diplomat.I married her to keep the empire, and I’ll drown this room in blood before I let him treat her like property.
I don’t blink or back down.
Instead, I move closer.
He doesn’t release her immediately, just keeps his grip on her to make a point.
Isabella pulls her arm away suddenly, as if she’s peeling a parasite off her skin.
Arturo’s gaze darkens.That cold Serrano glare flickers for a split second before he remembers the audience.He turns with practiced ease, slipping the venom back beneath his skin as he plasters on his politician’s smile.
Fucking snake.
“I don’t need you to defend me.”
“I wasn’t,” I bite out, my gaze still locked on Arturo.“I was reminding him who the fuck I am.”
She laughs.Not the gentle kind.It’s cruel.The kind that cuts you open and leaves you bleeding.
“It must be so fucking exhausting,” she says, voice dipped in venom, “having to remind people that you actually matter.”
That one fucking lands.
I step in, close enough to smell the defiance on her breath.
“You’d know,” I say softly.“You’ve been begging your father to see you for twenty years, wearing the Serrano name like it might finally make him give a fuck about you.”
She flinches, barely, but I see it.
“That dress?”I say.“It’s a performance.Just so he’d finally call you daughter.”
Her lips curl.“Fuck you.”
I don’t blink.
“Don’t worry, I plan to.Because whether you like it or not...”My voice dips.“You’re mine now.”I smirk at her, letting her know she belongs to me now and no one else.
