Page 128 of Maddening Fixation

Today, I couldn’t stop the tears.

Humiliation had a way of cutting deeper than any knife ever could.

I felt every stare inside the church.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed several guests subtly lowering their phones after recording what had happened.

Of course they had.

By tonight, the footage would spread through encrypted Bratva group chats and private Irish syndicate circles.

By tomorrow, everyone in our world would know that my husband had vowed hatred—not love—at the altar.

The realization hurt even more.

The priest finally found his voice.

His words blurred together into little more than meaningless sounds.

His words faded into a dull hum, each one blurring into the next until they became nothing more than meaningless noise.

Inside, my thoughts unraveled.

Standing at the altar beside the man who had just vowed to make my life a living hell, I couldn’t stop wondering what the next two years would bring.

This marriage wasn’t built on love or even tolerance—it was a contract.

Two years under the same roof, enduring each other until we both became eligible to claim our grandparents’ inheritance.

Seven hundred and thirty days.

Seven hundred and thirty days trapped with a man who looked at me as though my existence alone offended him.

A man who had just promised, in front of everyone, that he would make me suffer.

My stomach churned.

What if his hatred didn’t end with cruel words and icy silence?

What if, one day, making me miserable wasn’t enough?

What if he decided that my death would bring him more satisfaction than my suffering?

For the first time since agreeing to this arrangement, fear drowned out every other emotion.

Maybe I should have walked away.

Maybe losing the inheritance would have been a far smaller price to pay.

Because as I stood there at the altar, listening to my husband swear on his blood and his name that he would break my body, my spirit, and my soul until I begged him for the mercy he believed I had stolen from him, a terrifying thought settled deep in my chest.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just signed a marriage certificate.

I’d signed my own death warrant.

The ceremony ended without applause.

Guests rose slowly from their pews.