Warning.. this story contains violence/sexual scenes which may be triggering for some readers.
.....
That night, Rocas drove me in his Honda CR-V to his apartment in Illinois. His bedroom was quite spacious, completely covered in blue light, and the atmosphere was tense with a slow and steady tune.
The betrayal from my fiance was still there, eating away at my bones. I couldn't stop crying. But Rocas just knew how to make a woman feel good. He poured some hot alcoholic Vodka into both tumblers he was holding.
"This will make you feel better, dear," he said in a caring tone. I had no option but to sip it down my throat because I needed something that would make me forget the pain that had tightened my chest.
The vodka was the hottest liquid I had tasted in my entire life. I felt a bit tipsy, but I was still demanding more. After a while, he looked me straight in the eyes and was about to kiss my neck. But I quickly snapped away from him.
He laughed and said to me, "I will be truthful with you, my dear: forget this drama and your miserable wedding. I will be your new lover."
Though I was drunk at this point, I still heard the words entering my ear like hot boiling oil, burning down to my brain.
Immediately, I gulped the third tumbler of Vodka. The air seemed soft with laughter; it had all melted into a pleasant, distant roar. I was aware of strong arms guiding me, not with force, but with a steady certainty that made me feel safe to surrender.
The last thing I clearly remembered was the sharp taste of hot champagne burning through my chest.
His hands, which could be so cruel in the stories I'd heard, were impossibly gentle as they slipped through my breast. He cradled my bare feet, his thumbs stroking the arches. "You deserve good things, Millicent," he said, his voice like dark velvet. "You deserve to be looked after."
My eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the way his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a glimpse of taut, tanned skin and the dark ink of a tattoo. He was a paradox: a man built of hard edges and soft whispers.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, and it wasn't a line. It was a confession. "It hurts to look at you sometimes."
He kissed me. It wasn't a hungry, desperate kiss. It was slow, Reverent deep, exploring kiss that tasted of the champagne he'd drunk and the unique, intoxicating flavor that was just him. My drunkenness didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it was a veil, softening the edges of the world, making every sensation more profound.
His hands mapped my body through my dress, learning the curves of my hips and the dip of my waist. When he undressed me, it was with a ritualistic slowness; each button, each zip, was a deliberate act of worship. The cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palms.
He sucked the hell out of my pus*sy, which was dripping wet at that moment. He fondled my breasts so gently, like a slow massage. Just like a wave with force, I was transformed into another melodious realm I hadn't traveled to for the past seven years.
He made love to me like a man unraveling a mystery. There was no hurry, no frantic race to a finish. There were only his hands, his mouth, and his body moving against mine in a rhythm that felt ancient and brand new. The world narrowed to the space of his bed, to the sound of his ragged breath in my ear, and to the whispered words in a mix of English and Italian—beautiful, nonsensical, perfect things.
In that golden space, he wasn't a mafia enforcer; he was just Rocas. A man who held me like I was the most fragile and powerful thing he'd ever touched. And I wasn't a tipsy girl in a strange room; I was Millicent, fully seen, fully desired.
For a long time afterward, we just lay there, tangled together in the silence. The moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes across his skin. He pulled the heavy duvet over us and gathered me against his chest, my head finding its perfect spot in the hollow of his shoulder. His heartbeat was a steady, calming drum under my ear.
He pressed a kiss to my hair. "Sleep, Millicent."
And as I drifted into a contented, peaceful sleep, wrapped in the safety of his arms, I knew this was more than just a beautiful moment. It was the beginning of everything.
On the morning of my wedding, I woke up naked in an empty room with a stone in my chest where my heart should have been. I was having a mixed feeling about what I had done with Lucas. "Was I under the influence of alcohol, or had I fallen in love?" I asked myself those questions, hoping for someone to give me an answer.
The dress, the flowers, the two hundred guests. It all felt like a play I was being forced to star in. I held my phone, but the battery was gone, probably from calls of friends and family. I knew how worried my mom must have been by now.
I looked around and saw a socket with electricity where I could plug in my phone to charge it.
"Millicent, where have you been?" That was the first thing I heard when my mom picked up the call. "Today is your wedding, Millicent! Your friends and fiancé have been sick with worry about your whereabouts," she screamed out loud.
"There will be no wedding, Mom," I shouted back at her, with tears forcing their way down my cheeks.
My mom couldn't believe what I had just said. She texted me, telling me she would come pick me up if only I could send her my address. But what use would that be?
A man I had loved all my life arranged for my abduction in exchange for money. A contract that couldn't wait until after the wedding. A man who could do this to me would also be capable of trading me for money at any time. Too many calls kept flooding into my phone, so I had no option but to switch it off.