Chapter 1
The dress was white, but Iris had never felt more dirty.
The silk clung to her skin like a second shame. Every step she took through the marbled hallway of the Marshall estate echoed louder than her heartbeat, each click of her heels a countdown to the moment her life would no longer belong to her — as if it ever had.
The chandeliers above were dim, dripping golden light like blood from an open wound. Ornate pillars framed the room like prison bars. The guests were silent — a carefully curated blend of power, scandal, and fear. Mafia dons, Politicians & Liars dressed as gentlemen. No one smiled. No one dared.
Her father, Reginald Marshall, stood beside her in tailored silence. He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t say she looked beautiful. His lips barely moved as he muttered, “Don’t embarrass me.”
That was all he’d ever said to her — or rather, all she remembered.
Her mother had been crueler.
“Hold your head up. Smile.”
“Cover those blotches.”
“Do you want them to see what’s wrong with you?”
Every word seared itself into Iris’s mind, carved into the walls of her identity like an ugly brand. You’re damaged. That’s what her mother meant. Not worth loving. But useful.
The whispers around her were a symphony of judgment. She didn’t have to hear the words — she felt them grazing her vitiligo-rippled skin like knives. She was painted porcelain, fractured, and the cracks showed.
And somewhere in that crowd, her past still breathed.
Zion.
Even the ghost of his name made her stomach clench.
He wasn’t here, of course. But his voice never left. It waited for moments like this — when she felt small, voiceless, unseen.
“You’re pathetic, Iris. Soft. You think anyone will ever want all of you?”
“You should be grateful I didn’t ruin you completely.”
He had ruined her. Quietly. Strategically. With promises and lies. Zion didn’t yell — he whispered. And those whispers hollowed her out from the inside.
So when Luka Valedante appeared months later — a name spoken with fear, a rival of the Marshalls — Iris knew what her family would do.
They offered her like an olive branch.
But Luka wasn’t a man who cared about peace.
He stood like a shadow at the altar.
Tall. Towering. Still.
Luka Valedante wore black — perfectly tailored, sharp at the shoulders, matte gloves on his hands like a priest of violence. His hair was ink-dark, slicked back in effortless precision, and his expression was unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… cold.
Like a blade pulled from ice.
His eyes — gray, metallic — followed her with unnerving focus as she walked toward him. He did not smile. He did not blink. And when she reached him, he held out one hand.
She stared at it. For one long second too many.
Then she placed hers in his.
It was not soft.
It was not warm.
It was binding.
The ceremony was a blur.
There were no vows. No “I love yous.” No promises of forever.
Just a signature. A sealed contract. And a circle of gold slipped onto her finger like a shackle.
When Luka’s thumb brushed her knuckle, she felt a jolt of something that wasn’t quite fear… but it wasn’t safety either.
The officiant declared them man and wife. The guests clapped once, politely, like the end of a corporate deal.
No one kissed.
No one congratulated her.
Because no one thought she mattered.
Afterward, Luka led her through the garden — silent, ancient, and eerie beneath the weight of dusk.
The roses here were black. Actually black — engineered, no doubt, for aesthetic. Thorns as long as her fingers jutted from their stems like warnings.
“You hate this,” Luka said, his voice low and smooth. A rusted blade beneath velvet.
She didn’t answer.
He didn’t seem to care.
“I expected more resistance,” he went on, leading her down the path. “Then again, your family trained you well. Quiet. Obedient. Decorative.”
His grip on her arm tightened a fraction. Not painful — but firm.
“Don’t touch me like I’m an object,” she snapped before she could stop herself.
He stopped walking.
She felt the shift in the air — subtle, dangerous.
“I will touch what’s mine,” he said simply.
Her throat closed. “I’m not yours.”
He turned to face her. Slowly. Patiently.
His gloved fingers rose, brushed the edge of her jaw, then gripped her chin — gently, but with power. His gaze didn’t flinch.
“You are now.”
For a long, long second, they stared at each other.
She hated the way her pulse quickened. Hated the way his stillness made her feel like prey. And yet… it wasn’t like Zion. Luka didn’t pretend to love her. He didn’t try to convince her he was gentle.
He didn’t lie.
And that, somehow, scared her more.
“You think this is control,” she whispered. “But this is just cruelty wrapped in formality.”
Luka tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle.
“Cruelty,” he echoed. “No, Iris. Cruelty is what you already know. What Zion did to you. What your parents did. This—” he leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible, “—this is structure. Discipline. You’ll learn the difference soon.”
She stared at him, stunned. “You think you’re saving me?”
“I think I’m reprogramming you.”
He released her chin.
“I don’t need fixing.”
Luka’s mouth twitched — not a smile, but the idea of one.
“Everyone who’s been broken says that.”
She should’ve turned. Screamed. Hit him.
But instead… she stood there, breathing.
Because deep inside, the cold truth whispered:
At least he sees me.
Even if he doesn’t want to love her… he wants to own her.
And maybe — maybe that was the only kind of attention she ever learned to accept
She followed him through the garden in silence.
Not because she wanted to — but because there was nowhere else to go. Her world had collapsed inward long before today. Luka was just the final nail.
The air between them felt charged, the silence pressing, almost sentient.
As they neared the gates, a dark car idled beyond the iron bars, its engine a low growl in the twilight. The driver stepped out without a word and opened the rear door.
Luka turned to her before she entered.
“You don’t speak unless spoken to in my house,” he said plainly. “You don’t lock doors. You don’t hide.”
His tone wasn’t cruel. It was instructional. Matter-of-fact. As if he were teaching her how to survive a storm he was.
“And if I do?” she asked, testing the edge of her voice.
He stepped closer.
“You’ll learn.”
Her breath hitched.
Not because she was afraid of being hit — Luka didn’t strike her as the type to use fists. His danger was colder. Slower. He would strip her down layer by layer, until she didn’t know where he ended and she began.
“I don’t want to be your wife,” she whispered.
He leaned in until his lips brushed her ear.
“Good,” he said. “Because I didn’t marry you to play house.”
Iris flinched.
“I married you,” he murmured, “to unlearn you.”
He pulled back and opened the car door, waiting.
She didn’t move.
Her feet felt like anchors.
But her body betrayed her, as it always had. She climbed in, silent, eyes forward.
As the door shut and the car pulled away, Iris watched the lights of the estate blur and fade behind her.
Somewhere deep inside, the version of herself that once dreamed of love, of rescue, of softness — died.
And in the black silence of the ride…
She waited to be rewritten.
