The chapel was not a place of God.
It was a place of power.
Stone walls rose high and unforgiving, lit by low chandeliers that cast more shadow than light. There were no flowers, no softness, no warmth. Only men in dark suits lining the aisles, weapons hidden but present, eyes sharp and calculating.
Every vow spoken here would be heard by enemies.
Elena felt them watching as she walked forward.
Not admiring, Assessing.
She moved slowly, the black silk of her dress whispering against the stone floor. Each step felt deliberate, measured—like crossing a battlefield without armor. Her spine stayed straight. Her expression remained calm. Fear would be blood in the water.
At the altar stood Luca Moretti.
The Black King.
He wore black as well, tailored and severe, his presence anchoring the room. He didn't look nervous. He didn't look pleased. He looked prepared like a man signing a treaty rather than marrying a woman.
When Elena reached him, he turned slightly, offering his arm.
She did not take it.
A flicker passed through his eyes—approval, perhaps.
The officiant cleared his throat, visibly aware of the men surrounding him. This was not a ceremony to linger over. This was business disguised as tradition.
"We are gathered," the man began, voice steady but tight, "to witness a union forged in commitment and honor."
Elena almost laughed.
Honor.
She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the men whispering behind her, refusing to acknowledge the weight of the guns, the grudges, the alliances being sealed with her name.
"Luca Moretti," the officiant continued, "do you take Elena Russo as your lawful wife?"
The room went silent.
Luca didn't answer immediately. He turned to Elena instead, studying her face. Not her beauty. Her resolve. The way she refused to shrink.
"I do," he said at last. His voice carried—calm, certain, unchallenged.
The words landed like a stamp.
Ownership.
The officiant turned to her.
"Elena Russo," he said, hesitating just a fraction, "do you take Luca Moretti as your lawful husband?"
Every gaze sharpened.
This was the moment they watched for weakness. For tears. For hesitation.
Elena lifted her chin.
"I do," she said.
Her voice did not shake.
Something shifted in the room. Not approval—but recognition. She was not breaking. She was enduring.
The officiant nodded quickly, relieved. "You may exchange rings."
Luca produced a ring from his pocket—black metal, simple, heavy. No diamonds. No flourish. A band meant to last through blood and war.
He took her hand.
His touch was warm. Steady.
Not gentle—but careful.
As he slid the ring onto her finger, his thumb brushed her skin briefly, intentionally. A silent message passed between them.
We are bound now. Whether we like it or not.
She placed the ring on his hand in return. It felt wrong—and inevitable.
The officiant raised his voice. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
No applause followed.
Only silence.
Luca leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Do not look back," he murmured.
"I wasn't planning to," Elena replied.
He straightened and turned, facing the room, his hand firm at the small of her back. The gesture was unmistakable. Possessive. Public.
A message to everyone watching.
She is mine. Touch her, and die.
They walked back down the aisle together, steps synchronized, eyes forward. Elena felt the weight of it settle fully then—not the ring, not the vows, but the reality.
She had been married in a room full of enemies.
Every smile concealed calculation. Every nod marked a future test.
As the doors closed behind them, sealing the chapel away, Elena realized something chilling.
The wedding wasn't the danger, It was the beginning of the war.
And she had just chosen a side.
The chapel was not a place of God.
It was a place of power.
Stone walls rose high and unforgiving, lit by low chandeliers that cast more shadow than light. There were no flowers, no softness, no warmth. Only men in dark suits lining the aisles, weapons hidden but present, eyes sharp and calculating.
Every vow spoken here would be heard by enemies.
Elena felt them watching as she walked forward.
Not admiring, Assessing.
She moved slowly, the black silk of her dress whispering against the stone floor. Each step felt deliberate, measured—like crossing a battlefield without armor. Her spine stayed straight. Her expression remained calm. Fear would be blood in the water.
At the altar stood Luca Moretti.
The Black King.
He wore black as well, tailored and severe, his presence anchoring the room. He didn't look nervous. He didn't look pleased. He looked prepared like a man signing a treaty rather than marrying a woman.
When Elena reached him, he turned slightly, offering his arm.
She did not take it.
A flicker passed through his eyes—approval, perhaps.
The officiant cleared his throat, visibly aware of the men surrounding him. This was not a ceremony to linger over. This was business disguised as tradition.
"We are gathered," the man began, voice steady but tight, "to witness a union forged in commitment and honor."
Elena almost laughed.
Honor.
She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the men whispering behind her, refusing to acknowledge the weight of the guns, the grudges, the alliances being sealed with her name.
"Luca Moretti," the officiant continued, "do you take Elena Russo as your lawful wife?"
The room went silent.
Luca didn't answer immediately. He turned to Elena instead, studying her face. Not her beauty. Her resolve. The way she refused to shrink.
"I do," he said at last. His voice carried—calm, certain, unchallenged.
The words landed like a stamp.
Ownership.
The officiant turned to her.
"Elena Russo," he said, hesitating just a fraction, "do you take Luca Moretti as your lawful husband?"
Every gaze sharpened.
This was the moment they watched for weakness. For tears. For hesitation.
Elena lifted her chin.
"I do," she said.
Her voice did not shake.
Something shifted in the room. Not approval—but recognition. She was not breaking. She was enduring.
The officiant nodded quickly, relieved. "You may exchange rings."
Luca produced a ring from his pocket—black metal, simple, heavy. No diamonds. No flourish. A band meant to last through blood and war.
He took her hand.
His touch was warm. Steady.
Not gentle—but careful.
As he slid the ring onto her finger, his thumb brushed her skin briefly, intentionally. A silent message passed between them.
We are bound now. Whether we like it or not.
She placed the ring on his hand in return. It felt wrong—and inevitable.
The officiant raised his voice. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
No applause followed.
Only silence.
Luca leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Do not look back," he murmured.
"I wasn't planning to," Elena replied.
He straightened and turned, facing the room, his hand firm at the small of her back. The gesture was unmistakable. Possessive. Public.
A message to everyone watching.
She is mine. Touch her, and die.
They walked back down the aisle together, steps synchronized, eyes forward. Elena felt the weight of it settle fully then—not the ring, not the vows, but the reality.
She had been married in a room full of enemies.
Every smile concealed calculation. Every nod marked a future test.
As the doors closed behind them, sealing the chapel away, Elena realized something chilling.
The wedding wasn't the danger, It was the beginning of the war.
And she had just chosen a side.