Whispers of betrayal

The morning sunlight sliced through the curtains, exposing the remnants of a restless night. Shadows danced across the walls, flickering over the gown that hung by the door-a cruel reminder of the decision she had made in less than twenty-four hours. She had agreed to marry a stranger. A man whose voice she had barely committed to memory, whose presence felt as foreign as the weight pressing on her chest.

Maeve sat on the edge of the bed, her reflection in the mirror staring back at her with quiet disbelief. The silk and lace of the bridal gown gleamed in the morning light, exquisite and pristine. It was a masterpiece, yet to her, it felt more like a costume-an elaborate illusion for an audience she hadn't invited.

The minutes slipped away. The ceremony loomed, an inevitability she couldn't escape.

Her stomach twisted as she dressed, each movement slow, as though drawing out the final moments of freedom before stepping into the unknown.

By the time she reached the church, the world around her felt like a blur.

The towering stained-glass windows cast shifting patterns of color across the aisle, but it was the weight of his gaze that sent a chill through her spine. Luca Santoro stood at the altar, unreadable, detached-like a man fulfilling a contract rather than stepping into a marriage. His black tuxedo was tailored to perfection, accentuating his powerful build, but his eyes weren't on her. They weren't anywhere. He barely acknowledged her presence, his expression void of warmth or curiosity.

She moved with careful grace, her gown flowing around her, her chin tilted just enough to feign confidence. If this was to be a performance, she would play her part well.

When she reached him, he extended his hand, his grip firm but unremarkable.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low hum, edged with that faint Italian lilt she had noticed the day before. The words were mechanical, spoken with the same ease as someone reciting a daily task.

"Thank you," she replied, her crimson lips forming a polite, restrained smile. But it never reached her eyes.

The ceremony moved swiftly, the priest's words blending into the background as her mind spiraled.

"Do you, Maeve Sinclair, take Luca Santoro as your lawfully wedded husband?"

Silence.

For the briefest moment, her voice abandoned her. The air in the room seemed heavier, pressing down on her lungs. Then, the faintest brush of Luca's thumb against her palm-light, deliberate, reminding her that there was no way out.

"I do."

The words tasted foreign, unfamiliar, but once spoken, they couldn't be taken back.

Luca's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile. More like a fleeting expression of obligation. His eyes met hers-just for a second-before flicking away as if the moment meant nothing.

And just like that, it was done.

The reception was a whirlwind of movement and sound-laughter, clinking glasses, and murmured conversations that blurred together. Maeve stood at the edge of the room, fingers skimming the rim of her untouched champagne flute. The weight of the day sat heavy on her shoulders, and her husband was nowhere in sight.

She scanned the room, searching for Luca, though she wasn't sure why. Would she demand answers? Or would she accept that she had married a ghost-a man who was physically present but emotionally absent?

"Is it that bad?"

The voice startled her. Deep, smooth, and laced with amusement.

She turned sharply, her pulse quickening as she met the gaze of a man she had never seen before. He stood just a few feet away, posture effortlessly relaxed, as if the chaos of the evening didn't touch him.

He was handsome-dangerously so. Dark tousled hair, piercing blue eyes, and a sharp jawline that carried the faintest hint of mischief. His suit, though impeccable, was worn with a casual ease, as if he didn't belong yet commanded attention all the same.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

"The champagne," he said, gesturing to the flute in her hand. "You've been holding it for a while, but you haven't taken a sip. Either you hate the taste, or you're debating whether to drink your way through this entire night."

She blinked, caught off guard, then let out a small, reluctant laugh. "Neither."

"Good to know." He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over her-not in the way most men did, but as if he was studying her, reading something beyond the surface. "Adrian," he said, extending a hand. "Just another guest at this grand performance."

"Maeve," she replied hesitantly, shaking his hand. His grip was warm, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Well, Maeve," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, "you don't strike me as someone who enjoys glittering spectacles. If anything, you look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

She hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "It's... a lot," she admitted softly.

Adrian tilted his head, his smirk fading into something closer to understanding. "Let me guess-you're convincing yourself this is normal."

Her lips parted, but no words came. His observation was too precise, too unsettlingly accurate.

Before she could respond, a voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Maeve."

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Luca stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but there was a sharpness in his gaze-a silent warning.

Adrian's smirk returned, slower this time, laced with something unspoken. "Luca," he greeted smoothly, raising his glass in a lazy toast. "Your bride is quite the conversationalist. I was just keeping her company."

Luca's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. "She doesn't need your company."

There was no warmth in the words, only an unspoken dismissal. Without another glance at Adrian, he placed a firm hand on Maeve's lower back, guiding her away.

She cast one last glance over her shoulder. Adrian remained where he stood, his gaze lingering on her, unreadable yet undeniably amused.

The car ride to Luca's estate was steeped in silence.

When they arrived, the house loomed in the darkness-grand, beautiful, and eerily quiet.

Inside, the space was just as imposing, its cold elegance doing little to ease the growing weight in her chest.

At the base of the staircase, a woman waited. Young, striking, with dark hair and knowing eyes.

Maria.

Her smile was warm, but something about it made Maeve uneasy.

"Maria will take care of you," Luca said, his tone final.

Maeve turned to him, her pulse rising. "Wait-you're leaving?"

"I have work."

No further explanation. No reassurances. He simply turned and disappeared down the hall.

Maria's expression remained composed, but Maeve caught the flicker of something in her gaze-something almost too familiar.

"Would you like to see your room?" Maria asked gently.

Maeve followed her up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

The bedroom was beautiful, yet it felt lifeless.

Maria moved with quiet efficiency, adjusting small details, her presence careful. "The first night is always the hardest," she murmured.

Maeve hesitated. "You've worked here long?"

"Three years." A pause. "You'll learn the way things work."

Something about the way she said it sent a shiver through Maeve.

Later that night, Maeve stood by the window, staring into the darkness. The mansion was silent. Too silent.

And then it hit her-

Luca was gone.

Not just out of the room. Not just out of sight.

Gone.

And she had no idea where.