Bad Little Bride

I was the only soloist in the summer showcase at Lincoln Center in New York last year.

It was a prestigious event, and the last I was allowed to perform in. Only for the richest of the rich and those from elite families. Like Enzo, my father is nothing but a businessman to the outside world. Where Enzo is known and respected as the owner of the top security organization in the world, my father is a real estate guru and entrepreneur extraordinaire. Of course, that’s only to those who don’t look a little deeper.

Anyone aware of the darker ways of operating a business, or a dark lifestyle in general, knows the name Rayo Revenaw. He is a man feared, and with good reason. When he found out I was offered the solo, he refused to allow me to go, assuming it was a ploy of an enemy looking for a way to get to him. It was Rocklin who convinced him to make the exception, and Father always listens to my twin’s reasoning more than mine.

New York was outside his territory, the underground world there ran by another family altogether, but no one wanted to cross Rayo. He was the key to crossing borders, having strategically purchased properties all across the nation under his real estate front in precise, and well-planned, locations—no one moved without his permission—so against his better judgment, he allowed it.

The behind-the-curtain experience was exquisite, and that was saying something coming from a girl who learned from legends. My father literally found a way to secure me the top ballet masters and artistic directors. Whoever climbed to the top spots as the years went on somehow found their way to our door. Likely via blackmail, but who knows. Money talks as much as knowledge does.

The event held rows and rows of costumes, and walls of pointe shoes, custom down to the centimeter and every shade of silk, though the one I wore was a one-of-a-kind piece, stretched with the rarest of diamonds in the world. Lights and crew scattered the place, makeup artists with every palette in existence, and a spread of fruits and nuts imported from their countries of origin.

It was exclusive and divine, even if, in the end, I did find out the only reason I was invited was because they knew my sister would be in attendance.

Regardless, the showcase overall was an experience like no other.

I don’t know what I’m staring at out on Enzo’s courtyard, but it’s ten times what the summer showcase had to offer backstage.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen…even if I have no idea what it is.

The giant patio is littered with staff, carts and carts of gowns line the left, while shelving and shoes take up the right. There’s a flower arch at the foot of the steps, pink and white roses, and another farther into the grass, that one woven with ivy and baby’s breath. A checkered blanket stretches across the far corner of the yard, fruits and two pairs of shoes tossed leisurely beside it, as if they were carelessly kicked off, though no one sits on top.

There are tripods and giant lights all over, pointed in every direction and being fussed with by two to three people each—people who are fumbling and tense, likely due to the two-bandana wearing armed guards positioned at every person’s back. Literally, every single person has themselves a gangster-sized shadow.

There are a few directors’ chairs and giant trucks spread open wide, the contents facing the opposite direction in which I stand, so I can’t say what’s inside.

It’s almost like a movie set, small scenes set up all across the yard.

The most shocking, though, is what sits dead center of the brick patio. Giant glass cases sit side by side, stretching out at least thirty feet, deep blue velvet lining the insides, diamonds glittering under the afternoon sun. But it’s not the diamonds that have me swallowing. It’s the engraving on the side of the table.

Ann-Marie’s Ice.

“She will make your ring.”

I stiffen as his voice washes over me, refusing to turn and look at him.

A few silent seconds pass, and the heat of his body grows closer, his steps as silent as a panther.

“What is all this?”

Rather than answering, he says, “The only people who know we are already married include the priest, Mino, you’ll meet him soon, and Ann-Marie.”

“Why did you tell her?” comes out of my mouth before I know what I’m asking.

Enzo says nothing, so I look back, lifting my eyes to his.

He was waiting for that, a curious expression written across his face. “Why do you think I told her?”

I lift a shoulder, my throat suddenly thick under his scrutiny, and Enzo shakes his head slowly, warning me against the cop-out.

He presses closer, and I inhale sharply.

It was a mistake, though an uncontrollable one, as it’s not a fresh breath of air that slips into my lungs, but a strong whiff of sweet and spice. It’s the threat of danger and the temptation of raw sugar on your tongue. It’s all Enzo.

His eyes fall to my lips, holding there. “Do you think I’m fucking her, Little Bride?”

“Stop calling me that,” I rasp.

“Do you care if I am fucking her, Little Bride?”

“I said stop calling me that.”

His attention snaps up, his gaze trapping mine. “Why? You are my bride.”

“Says you.”

“Says the law.”

I scoff a laugh, rolling my eyes as I look away, but Enzo is quick, he grips my chin between his fingers, drawing me right back.

“Is something funny?” His voice is like raw honey, gritty yet smooth at the same time.

“The law means nothing to men like you.”

“That’s where you are very, very wrong.” His hold on my chin glides lower, and I force myself not to react when his calloused fingers stretch along the skin of my neck. “The law is what I say it is. The rules are the ones I make up. The expectations the ones I have set. So I will say it again. You are my wife…says the law.”

Aka says him.

“So you did or did not file our marriage license?”

“I did.” He nods. “I have a copy waiting for you upstairs.”

I search for the lie in his eyes, but he gives nothing away.

Stretching my neck away from his touch, his hand finally falls and I take a step forward, turning slightly so he’s not completely at my back.

“My father asked for a wedding,” I remind him.

“Your father is no longer relevant. Bastian Bishop controls the Revenaw empire now.”

My spine steels and I shake my head. Dread burns down my spine at what that could mean, the change in power news to me.

Enzo watches me closely, waiting several moments before sharing, “He’s alive, but he shouldn’t be after he went back on the deal that gave me you.” He pauses, waiting to see if I will correct or confirm his assumption, that my breaking the contract and refusing to return here was my father’s doing, and not mine.

I say nothing, and while irritation flickers across his forehead in the form of small creases, he doesn’t leave me to wonder as I would have expected.

“Your father was superseded for his actions, the union refusing to overlook the breach of contract. He was forced to pass the torch to your sister, who passed it to Bastian, which works much better for me. He’s far more open to change than your father was.”

His words roll through my mind like a wave, crashing against all the plans that led me to this man in the first place.

I was intended to be the bridge between the two families, merging my father’s organization with Enzo’s, but it seems they built one on their own. My throat grows thick, my mind spinning with thoughts, but only one settles in the forefront of my mind.

What good am I to you then?

Of course I don’t say those exact words, instead leading with, “If that’s true, why did you bring me back here?”

He leans close, so close the heat of his breath fans over my lips. “I bought you, did I not?”

The blow of his words hits harder than I’d care to admit, but I don’t know why. They’re not entirely unexpected, and are undeniably true.

Enzo bought me, like a ciabatta from Ciaro’s Bakery, but what happens when I’m no longer fresh from the oven, but sour and covered in mold?

I try to turn away, but he doesn’t allow it, snaring me by the waist before I can blink. His gaze narrows intrusively, so I close my eyes to hide from him.

A harsh flash flickers over my eyelids and I blink, looking to the left. A man is crouched about five feet away, camera poised in his hands.

He gives a curt nod and Enzo releases me, stepping back.

“As I said before, no one knows we’re married.” He begins peeling off last night’s shirt, and my attention snaps to his long, textured fingers, following as they push each button through their holes one at a time. “We will feed our people slowly. A tease, a taste, a feast. We will leave no one to question the authenticity of our relationship.”

He peels the shirt from his shoulders, revealing his bare chest to me for the first time, and my pulse does a little jump.

His skin is taut and deep golden in color. I don’t know if I expected a body covered in tattoos to give him the dark disposition his mere presence delivers, but his skin is untouched by ink. Instead, he wears his scars proudly, sharp cuts that slightly raise the skin near his ribs, and deep brown slashes over his pecs, wounds that healed but didn’t quite fade.

He tosses the shirt to a person I didn’t see walk up and faces me, the slight shifting of his body tightening every muscle across his form, making his abs constrict and muscles flex enticingly.

Dickhead or not, there’s no denying he is a sight. A golden god, the sun beating down on his back making him appear heaven-sent when really, a devil dwells beneath his skin.

My eyes catch onto the pendant around his neck, and once again I wonder what hangs from the expensive chain.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” he asks, gaze roaming over my expression, a hint of amusement settling over his own.

“You want people to believe we chose each other.”

He tsks his tongue. “We did choose each other.”

I roll my eyes and he lifts a brow. Okay, so technically we did, in the sense I went to him and asked if he wanted an easy way into the Revenaw empire, and he said yes.

“As a matter of convenience, sure, but now you want people to think our relationship is real and not a simple business transaction? That’s not in the contract⁠—”

“I gave you my name,” he hisses. “Our relationship is as real as it gets.”

Annoyance, watered down by something I can’t quite name, trickles through me, and I sigh, smoothing my hair down in exasperation. He tracks the movement before looking back to me expectantly.

“Then I guess no, Enzo, I don’t know what you mean.” My aggravation is obvious in my tone.

He moves so fast I don’t see him coming until I feel the hard planes of his muscles against my body. “Yes, you do.” I swallow, and his eyes blacken. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Do I, though?

“Why did you fire that man?” I blurt out.

Enzo’s expression hardens before going completely blank. “Why do you care?”

“I liked him.”

His body goes rigid, and slowly, he cocks his head. “You…liked him.”

Why do I feel like that was the wrong thing to say?

He crowds me some more. “Tell me, what did he do to make you…like him?”

“He was good at his job, paid attention. He was kind to me.”

“Kind to you.” His eyes narrow, tension tightening his jaw and when he speaks, it’s through clenched teeth. “Did he speak to you?”

“Well, no⁠—”

“Did he look at you?”

“No, but⁠—”

“Did he save you?”

My brows snap together. “What? No⁠—”

“So how did he earn the title of savior?” He spits the word.

“Uh…” Did I call him that? I might have said it playfully, but I can’t think right now, not with Enzo coming closer, backing me up farther and farther.

“What did he do to earn a smile from you?” he presses, frustration rolling off him in waves.

What the hell is happening right now?

It makes no sense, and he keeps on coming.

“Tell me, is a warm cappuccino all it takes?”

My back hits the brick railing and his palms come down, resting against the space nearest my hips, his thumbs so close they brush my ribs. Goosebumps spread along my arms, and I press my lips into a firm line.

“If so, what will a double get me, hmm?” His face disappears into my neck without a moment’s notice, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping when his lips press over my pulse there. “A night in your bed, perhaps?”

My insides spark with heat, and I close my eyes, shifting to bury them in his hair to spare myself the humiliation of allowing others to see the reaction my body has to his nearness, even when the meaning behind his words is foul and degrading.

Liquid insides or not, he’s pissing me off, so I slide my hand in his dark locks and tug.

His low growl sweeps over me like warm satin, and when his heated gaze meets mine, I manage a small smile.

“Oh, Enzo,” I whisper, ignoring the way his eyes flare. “If only you knew how little the many men I’ve invited into my bed had to do to get there.”

Rage rattles in his chest, and he grips my hip hard. “You lie,” he hisses.

“You’ll never know.”

He grinds his teeth, his fingers digging into my skin.

“Should I come back?”

My spine straightens at the sound of Ann-Marie’s voice, and I push against Enzo’s chest, but he doesn’t budge.

He holds still, eyes on mine until another set of footsteps shuffle closer, and then another.

The harshness falls from his face in a blink, and he spins, an air of indifference painted across him.

“No need.” He hardly looks toward Ann-Marie, instead facing a woman with long brown hair and a nervous smile she keeps pointed at the ground. He holds a hand out in my direction, so I take my cue, stepping forward but not closer to him.

The minute my feet move, her smile snaps up to mine.

“Oh…oh, it’s Miss Revenaw!” She rushes forward, tensing when Enzo slides to the right, to keep her from getting too close to me. Her cheeks pinken, going giddy at his fake little act of protection, and squeezes a small binder against her chest. She sighs happily. “Miss Revenaw, forgive me. I had no idea you were the lucky lady. It’s a huge honor!”

Warmth slips into the cold crevasses of my chest, and I find myself returning her smile. “Thank you, um…”

“Call me Clair.” The woman is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I have taken Mr. Fikile’s orders and brought with me the best Fortune Flave has to offer.”

My brows lift. “You’re from the magazine.”

She nods again. “We reached out to Mr. Fikile last year sometime asking about a bachelor’s piece. He, of course, was far too busy, so when he returned our call to let us know he couldn’t because he wasn’t a bachelor, we begged for a chance to share the first photo of him and his new belle. That person being you is…beyond words.” She beams.

Literally beams, and a small flicker of pride blooms in my belly, and I am so curious to know which performance of mine she’s familiar with.

I dare a glance at Enzo, who regards me with a strange glint of…something.

“I have to ask.” Her excitement is contagious, and I nod encouragingly. “Do you think you’ll ever return to the Olympics?”

Just like that, the illusion that managed to invade my mind these last fifteen minutes clears, reality once again crisp and fucking clearer.

It’s humiliating from every standpoint. So much so, in fact, I can’t form the words to respond. Can’t meet the burning gaze of Enzo at my side.

I swallow the embarrassment and pretend I don’t give a shit people look at me and want so badly for me to be my twin, that that’s all they see. I can’t fault them for it, it’s only natural. What’s a prima ballerina have on a gold medalist anyway?

Not much.

I’m proud of my sister; I’m just not her.

Forcing myself to face the other woman witnessing this disaster, who may or may not be fucking the man who stole my wedding out from under me—the only thing that would have been mine to control in this contractual, sham of a marriage that I’m apparently supposed to pretend is real—I square my shoulders.

“So. Diamonds.”

Ann-Marie smirks, a nasty little gleam in her cat-shaped eyes, and elegantly sweeps a hand out. “Right this way, Boston.”

The moment my name leaves her lips, Clair tenses in my peripheral, but I don’t look her way. I follow Ann-Marie because at this point, I’d let her lead me off a cliff if it meant avoiding the mortification threatening to swallow me whole.

What’s sad is it’s not for me. It’s for him, as I know what he’s sure to figure out.

This is only the first of many introductions that will go this exact same way.

Soon, he will realize “buying” me was no win on the auction block.

He didn’t acquire the one-of-a-kind crowned jewel.

He got the knockoff.

I wonder how many more meetings like this before he checks the return policy on an underground marriage contract?

Spoiler alert: death is the only escape.