Shattered Vows

Dinner

The hours dragged as I prepared for the evening. The house was silent except for the rustle of fabric and the whispers of the two women sent to dress me. Their efficient hands made me feel like a mannequin, my detachment growing with each passing minute.

They applied makeup with a light touch, leaving my brown eyes dull and tired. Subtle foundation, a touch of blush, and faint eyeshadow did little to ease my unease. It felt as though they were painting over my anxiety rather than addressing it.

When they started on my hair, they gathered my dark brown strands into a low bun, leaving a few loose tendrils to frame my face. The hairstyle felt foreign, and the jewelry—simple yet sparkling—added to my discomfort, making me feel like a showpiece.

Slipping on the high heels was torturous. I could barely walk in them, and the tight black sheath dress only amplified my discomfort. I felt like a doll, stripped of my identity.

The ladies stepped back, nodding in approval. I barely recognized myself in the mirror, feeling more like an object of beauty and wealth than a person trapped in her own despair.
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The ladies finished their work and left, leaving me alone in the room. A few minutes later, Marco entered, dressed in a black suit and dress shoes. His eyes widened as he took in my appearance, clearly impressed by how I looked.

He approached me with a smirk and, without warning, leaned in to kiss me. The touch of his lips was unexpected, and I tried to pull away, my discomfort evident. His initial surprise turned to anger as he grabbed me tightly, pulling me closer. I struggled to calm him, but his fury only seemed to intensify.

"Come on, we're going to be late," I said urgently, trying to defuse the situation. His curses filled the room as he reluctantly released me, his anger still simmering.

As I turned to walk past him, he seized my arm, gripping it painfully above the elbow. The sharp pain made me flinch. I looked down to see a red mark forming where his fingers had dug in. "I'm not letting this slide," he growled. "I'll deal with you after the dinner."

With that, he let me go and stormed out of the room, leaving me standing there, my arm throbbing and my heart racing with a mixture of fear and frustration.

As I stepped into the car, the cool leather of the seat did little to ease the anxiety inside me. Luca, ever the silent enforcer, drove with a steady hand while the city lights flickered past the window. The weight of the evening ahead settled heavily on my shoulders.

The car pulled up to a grand building, its opulence starkly contrasting with my unease. Marco's stern gaze followed me as I exited the vehicle, and he caught my arm in a firm grip, his earlier anger still simmering.

"Remember what I said," he warned in a low, threatening voice. "Behave perfectly tonight. Smile, speak when spoken to, and keep your composure. You know what will happen if you don't."

The threat was clear, his eyes dark with menace. I nodded, trying to suppress the wave of fear that threatened to overwhelm me. With a final, warning glance, Marco released my arm and gestured for me to follow him.

We walked towards the entrance, and I could feel every step echoing with the weight of the evening's expectations. As we approached the grand doors, my heart pounded with a mix of anxiety and dread, knowing that every move I made would be scrutinized and that any mistake could have dire consequences.

Marco and I entered the grand restaurant, hand in hand. His demeanor shifted from cold to charming as we were welcomed by a line of impeccably dressed staff. The restaurant was extravagant—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and elegantly dressed patrons.