His Rivals virgin Bride

I never imagined my first kiss would taste like fear.

It wasn't the roses lining the altar, the gold-trimmed veil I'd barely stopped shaking beneath, or the weight of the diamond ring on my trembling finger. It was him. The man standing at the end of the aisle-untouchable, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm in a sea of chaos.

He wasn't supposed to be my husband.

I wasn't supposed to be the bride.

I clutched the bouquet tighter, my knuckles white around the silk ribbon. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain the entire cathedral could hear it echoing off the marble walls. The music had started-soft violins rising with impossible elegance, so disconnected from the frantic lies unraveling inside my chest.

Run.

My instincts screamed it. But my body was frozen. And so was time.

"Maureen," my mother hissed beside me, her smile brittle, rehearsed. "You have to walk. Now. If you stop-if he realizes-it's over. For all of us."

Her words sank like cold needles beneath my skin. She wasn't exaggerating. The man I was walking toward was Andre De Luca-billionaire, power broker, and heir to a ruthless legacy that never forgave betrayal.

And he thought I was my sister.

The real bride.

The one who disappeared last night.

I hadn't slept. Couldn't. The moment Elena vanished-gone without a note, without a phone call-I knew everything in our world was about to collapse. Our family's debt to the De Lucas wasn't just financial; it was personal. Political. Dangerous.

Elena's engagement to Andre had been arranged like a business merger-her hand in marriage for silence, wealth, protection. That was the price of the sins our father committed.

But she ran.

And they needed a bride.

Now.

And I was the only one who could wear her face.

"Elena," the wedding planner whispered as she opened the grand doors.

I swallowed hard.

No. Not Elena.

Maureen. Twenty-one. The invisible sister. The disappointment.

But today I wore her name. Her custom dress. Her perfume.

And I was about to marry the most dangerous man in New York.

I walked down the aisle like a doll being pulled by invisible strings. My limbs moved, but my mind screamed with every step.

Don't trip. Don't speak. Don't shake. Just get to the end.

The guests watched with silent awe-billionaire tycoons, mafia leaders in disguise, senators with bloodstained smiles. This wasn't a wedding. It was a public alliance. A warning.

And at the center of it all was him.

Andre De Luca.

He stood still, dressed in a crisp black suit that looked like it had been cut from the shadows themselves. His jaw was sharp, expression unreadable, his cold steel eyes tracking my every movement like a predator sizing up prey.

I didn't know how to look at him without flinching.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful-silent, devastating, and impossible to survive once caught in the center.

Our eyes met as I reached the altar.

And something in me broke.

His fingers closed around mine. Firm. Possessive. Not tender.

"You're late," he murmured, loud enough for only me to hear.

"I was getting ready," I lied, my voice nearly cracking.

His gaze didn't blink. "You never keep me waiting."

There it was. The control. The dominance. Elena used to mock it-until she stopped laughing altogether.

I nodded mutely.

"Smile," he said.

So I did.

I smiled like a girl stepping into a coffin lined in silk.

The ceremony was brief. Words I barely heard. Vows I didn't mean. A priest who didn't question why my voice trembled every time I said "I do."

Then came the kiss.

He leaned in.

I held my breath.

His lips brushed mine with a coldness that wasn't passion or tenderness-it was possession. Like sealing a deal. Claiming a product.

My knees nearly buckled.

Then it was done.

We were husband and wife.

And he still had no idea who I really was.

The reception blurred.

Champagne flutes clinked.

Laughter echoed from liars dressed in gold.