Page 15 of Heritage of Fire

“Mom, please. Tell him. I won’t survive this,” I plead.

She lets out a sigh and pushes to stand.

“Please, Mom!”

She moves in front of me. I’m encouraged by the empathetic look in her eyes, but then it shatters.

The sting across my cheek comes as a surprise. She has never raised her hand to me before.

“You are a fool,” she says, and I let out a sob. “You are ruined for this family. What man will want you now?”

Her shoulders roll back, and she lifts her chin to my father. After giving him a clipped nod, she turns on her heel and leaves.

The memory fades away and I divert my eyes from my mother, dropping them to my lap, and wring my hands together. Her body heat lingers behind me for another moment, then it vanishes. When her voice rings out in the hall, I wince.

“Isabella, it’s your turn. Let’s go.”

The ride to the church is quiet. It’s only my father, mother, and sister in the limo with me. Some of our staff follow in cars behind us, escorting our family to the ceremony.

Towering in its presence, this church was the one I grew up going to. The entire exterior is adorned with decorative elements full of intricate details. Ornate stone carvings and stained glass windows depict saints’ lives.

The limo pulls up to the entrance—massive wooden doors with more detailed metalwork and religious symbols. The parking lot is empty, and most of the guests from both organizations will be arriving within the next hour.

My stomach dips, and I bring my hand to my mouth, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

My father gets out first. He extends his hand to my mother, then my sister, and eventually me. The strong hands I remember as a kid are shaking and unsteady. My eyes float to his, and he offers a less than worthy smile.

Entering the church takes my breath away, as it always has. The high, vaulted ceiling rises to meet grand arches. Light streams in through the painted windows, the colors dancing along the walls and floors.

I peek into the sanctuary. The wedding planner and her staff are still hard at work seeing to the last details. Cool marble embellishes the altar, where candelabrasflicker, and where the crucifix stands as the central focus. White hydrangeas have exploded all over the wooden pews that stretch down the aisle and I gasp, the acoustics carrying my reaction to the wedding planner. She turns to see me and gives me a sweet wave I can’t seem to make myself return.

A pull on my wrist has me startling, and I look behind me. “Mom wants you back here to get changed,” my sister says, dragging me down the hallway. “Guests will start coming in soon.”

She’s dressed in a soft, flowy pink chiffon dress that hovers above her knees. Typically, her wardrobe choices are vibrant and less modest. She catches me staring.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look nice,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m not the one getting married, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

I can’t do the verbal sparring today. Her face falls, no doubt noticing my somber expression, and she gives my hand a quick squeeze. I offer a light smile in return.

We’re getting ready in one of the church’s large conference rooms. Both the hairstylist and makeup artist are here for touch-ups. Several of our female staff are doing last-minute presses to my dress, and my mother is running around like a mad woman.

Honestly, it’s confusing.

Does she not understand this isn’t a real wedding?

I strip from my white, oversized button-up and leggings and step into the dress. Giulia works to do up the back.

“Suck it in, Luna,” my mom’s voice sounds from behind me, and I appease her on instinct, sucking in my empty stomach as the last of the zipper is pulled up. Both she and Giulia spread the bottom of the dress out around me, and my sister pins the veil into my hair.

A knock reverberates on the door, and my father enters, his eyes doing a double take on me before he addresses my mother.

“They’re here.”

A shiver runs down my spine and suddenly I’m breathless, my heart pounding. Knowing my soon-to-be husband is just outside this toothpick of a door—I cringe. My life is aboutto change forever, and my mind is currently playing Russian Roulette with which emotion is going to kick me in the stomach.

---