The smell of lilies clashed with the smoke of betrayal.
Arianna Steele stood at the altar, heart pounding like a war drum. The chandeliers glittered above her like a thousand judging eyes. Her dress, custom silk, hand-stitched, the color of purity, was now stained red.
Red from the wine hurled at her by her maid of honor.
Miranda.
Her best friend.
Her betrayer.
"He never loved you," Miranda snarled, heels clacking as she stalked forward. She held up her phone, her French-manicured finger tapping play. The projector flickered to life behind the altar.
A video played.
A bed.
Moans.
Ethan, Arianna's fiancé. Naked. On top of Miranda.
From the night before.
Gasps rippled through the pews. Someone screamed. A phone clicked, capturing a scandal in real time.
Arianna didn't scream. Didn't cry.
She looked at the man she had promised her forever to and felt, nothing.
Something inside her broke cleanly. Silently. Like glass under pressure.
Then she turned. And walked. Down the aisle, not as a bride, but as a woman reborn in fire.
Outside, winter slapped her bare shoulders. The chill bit into her skin, but she kept walking, heels cracking against the stone steps like defiance.
Then she saw him.
Leaning on a black Maybach like he owned the world. And maybe he did.
Lucien Virelli.
CEO of Virelli International.
The devil in a tailored suit.
His gaze locked onto hers. Unblinking. Unreadable.
"Marry me," he said, voice colder than the wind.
She stared at him. "What?"
"One year. A contract. I'll salvage what's left of your family's legacy. You give me your name."
"Why?" she asked, voice raw.
Lucien's lips curled slightly. "Because I always get what I want. And right now, that's you."
Arianna let out a dry laugh. "Go to hell."
He smirked. "I own it."
Her phone buzzed.
A headline: "Steele Enterprises Declares Bankruptcy Amid Wedding Scandal."
Her father's face stared back at her from the screen, ashen, broken, humiliated.
Her stomach twisted. Rage burned hot beneath her ribs.
This wasn't just humiliation. It was obliteration.
And Lucien was offering her the last shred of power she had left.
She turned back to him. "Send me the contract."
Lucien Virelli's penthouse was like him, steel, glass, and no heart.
Everything gleamed too perfectly. No warmth. No soul. Just cold surfaces that reflected your fear back at you.
Arianna stood still, watching him. Watching the man who had turned her life into a negotiation. Her heels echoed faintly against the marble floor as she stepped closer to the table.
He slid the contract across to her with surgical precision. "You'll live here. You'll attend events. You'll do as I say."
Her throat burned. "What if I say no?"
Lucien leaned back in his chair, a predator lounging in his lair. "Then your father goes to jail. Your mother's treatment stops. Your sister's scholarship gets pulled. And I marry someone else. Someone obedient."
Arianna's nails dug into her palm. Her pride screamed, but her family's faces were louder in her mind.
"No love. No intimacy. No touching," she snapped.
Lucien's smile was pure cruelty. "You'll beg me to touch you."
She stared him down. Then signed.
His eyes glittered with triumph. He leaned in, voice low and lethal. "Welcome to your new prison, Mrs. Virelli."
Later that night, in the cold silence of her new bedroom, Arianna opened the drawer of her nightstand, desperate for something, anything human.
She found a letter.
It was yellowed, folded once. Her breath caught when she saw the handwriting.
Her mother's.
She unfolded it slowly, fingers trembling.
"Trust no one at Virelli."
That was it.
No name. No date. Just that one line.
Arianna didn't sleep that night.
The next day, they attended a charity gala. It was their first public appearance as husband and wife.
The moment they stepped out of the limousine, paparazzi exploded around them. Flashes burst like fireworks. Her diamond ring, custom-designed, intentionally ostentatious, glinted under the chaos of camera lights.
Lucien leaned in, lips barely grazing her ear.
"Smile like you're in love."
Arianna smiled like a queen about to burn the palace down.
Inside the grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars. Gold-trimmed walls echoed with false laughter. And at the far end of the room, Miranda and Ethan.
Her ex-best friend and her ex-fiancé.
Lucien's grip on her waist tightened. "Ah. Them."
"You knew they'd be here," Arianna said flatly.
He didn't deny it.
She pulled him with her toward them, head high, shoulders squared.
When they reached the pair, Arianna turned, cupped Lucien's face, and kissed him.
Not a peck. Not pretend.
A long, slow, deliberate kiss that made Miranda go rigid and Ethan shift uncomfortably.
Lucien stiffened for half a second. Then he gripped her waist and pulled her closer, deepening it.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, he murmured in her ear, "If you play with fire, darling, prepare to get burned."
Her smile was ice.
She lifted her champagne flute and "accidentally" tipped it forward, red wine splashed across Miranda's designer gown.
"Oops," Arianna said sweetly. "I thought backstabbing came with a splash."
Miranda's mouth fell open. Ethan blinked.
Lucien chuckled darkly. For a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes, not anger.
Hunger.
Back at the penthouse, she tried to disappear into her room, but Lucien followed.
"You'll need to sleep in my bed now," he said, leaning in the doorway like sin. "The board wants photos. Proof of our… closeness."
"Then lie to them," she snapped.
He stepped closer. "Oh, darling. I don't lie. I perform."
She tried to shove past him, but he caught her wrist, not hard, but firm.
His voice dropped. "You're not the only one playing a long game, Arianna. You think this is about revenge. But for me? It's about obsession."
She ripped her arm away. "Then get a hobby."
He laughed softly, and for the first time, she wasn't sure if she was safe.
That night, she lay wide awake.
The penthouse was too silent. Her thoughts too loud.
Her phone buzzed.
Blocked number.
She hesitated… then picked up.
A raspy voice whispered, "You shouldn't be there."
She froze. "Who is this?"
"Don't trust anyone at Virelli. Especially not Lucien."
"Why?" she whispered.
The line went dead.
She stared at her phone for what felt like hours.
Days passed, each one tightening around her like a noose. Lucien was, everywhere. At breakfast, in the car, in meetings. Always watching. Always silent, except when issuing cold commands or smirking at her resistance.
One morning, she woke to find a black velvet box on her pillow.
Inside: a sapphire choker.
A note in his handwriting:
"Obedience looks good on you."
She nearly threw it at the wall.
Instead, she wore it to dinner with his board.
Power was performance. She was learning fast.
Lucien brushed her neck during dessert, letting his thumb rest just beneath the choker. She flinched.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone approved.
Later that night, she asked, "What are you really after?"
Lucien didn't blink. "Control."
"You already have that."
He stepped closer, backing her into the wall. "No. Not yet."
A week later, her mother's lawyer called.
The hospital bills had been mysteriously paid.
Arianna stared at her reflection, then at the sapphire choker.
This was the cost.
Then came the gala at Virelli Global.
This time, Lucien whispered, "Tonight, you're mine."
He wasn't smiling.
The ballroom swirled with gold and shadows. Celebrities, investors, politicians. And him, Lucien, never letting go of her hand.
Arianna played the role. Smiled. Laughed. Toasted.
Then she caught sight of someone in the crowd, a man with sharp eyes and a scar across his jaw.
He was watching her. Not Lucien. Her.
She turned away. When she looked again, he was gone.
Back in the penthouse, she opened the drawer.
The letter was gone.
In its place, another note, different handwriting.
"You're not the first. Don't become the last."
Her breath caught.
She turned, and Lucien was in the doorway, watching her.
But this time, he wasn't smirking.
He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"Arianna," he said softly, "where did you get that?"
She held the note tight, her voice low. "It was in the drawer."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "That's not possible."
"Why?" she asked, stepping closer. "Because it's true?"
He didn't answer.
She unfolded the paper again. Her hands shook as she read the back side. A new line appeared, in different ink.
"They killed your mother."
Her vision blurred. "Lucien, who did this?"
He took a step back, suddenly silent.
"Tell me," she demanded.
He whispered, "That's why I married you."