Page 99 of Sinful Obsession
The first day of December enveloped Moscow in a crisp, snowy embrace, but inside the grand hall of Cassian’s estate, the air was warm and steeped in the unmistakable aura of a mafia wedding.
The hall was a cathedral of opulence.
Crimson roses and white orchids spilled from gilded vases, their scent mingling with the faint musk of cigar smoke and aged whiskey.
Men in tailored black suits, their lapels adorned with silver pins signaling their allegiance, stood sentinel along the walls, their eyes sharp but respectful.
Women in sleek gowns whispered behind gloved hands.
The atmosphere was both regal and dangerous, a celebration cloaked in the power and secrecy of the underworld.
I stood at the altar, my wedding gown a masterpiece of ivory silk and lace.
Cassian faced me, his tailored black suit accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame.
His blue eyes burned with love and passion, holding mine with an intensity that made the room fade away, as if we were the only two people in existence.
The priest, a solemn figure in black robes with a crimson stole, stepped forward, his voice resonating through the hall. “We gather to unite Cassian Moretti and Charlotte Grayson in holy matrimony. Please, join hands and step to the podium.”
We ascended the low steps, our hands clasped, his grip warm and steady.
The crowd hushed, their eyes fixed on us, a mix of allies, lieutenants, and rival families who’d come to witness the union of the Moretti and Grayson empires.
The priest raised his hands, his voice formal and commanding. “Cassian Moretti, do you take Charlotte Grayson to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?”
Cassian’s gaze never wavered, his voice low but fervent, dripping with obsession. “I do—more than words can ever convey. Charlotte, you are my heart, my soul, my everything. Ivow to love you, protect you, and cherish you with every breath I have left, beyond this life and into the next.”
My heart fluttered, his words a fire that warmed and unsettled me.
The priest turned to me, his expression softening. “Charlotte Grayson, do you take Cassian Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?”
I swallowed, my voice steady despite the emotions swirling within. “I do. Cassian, you’ve hurt me, but you’ve also fought for me, for us. I choose you, today and always, to build a life together.”
The priest nodded, presenting a velvet box with two rings—platinum bands encrusted with tiny emeralds, symbols of our intertwined legacies.
I took Cassian’s ring, my fingers brushing his as I slid it onto his finger.
He smiled, a rare softness in his eyes, then sank to one knee before me, the gesture drawing gasps from the crowd.
He took my hand, his touch reverent, and slid the ring onto my finger, his eyes locked on mine as if pledging his soul.
The weight of the ring felt like a promise, solid and eternal.
Cassian rose, taking the microphone from the priest, his presence commanding the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice rich and resonant, “today is the greatest day of my life. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams, the mother of my twins.” He gestured to Asher and Aria, seated in the front row, their faces beaming in matching outfits—Aria in a fluffy pink dress, Asher in a miniature suit.
They waved, drawing chuckles from the crowd.
“I’ve hurt Charlotte in ways no man should—pushing her away when I thought I was protecting her, letting fear and illness tear us apart for six years. I was a fool, consumed by myown demons, but she never left my heart. I vow to spend every remaining day loving her, proving I’m worthy of her strength, her courage, her love. She’s not just my wife—she’s my queen, the Grayson boss, and I’ll stand by her side forever.”
Tears glistened in the eyes of several guests—Elena Volkov, my lieutenant, dabbed at her cheeks, while an older woman in a sapphire gown clutched her husband’s arm, whispering, “He’s changed.”
Nearby, two men in pinstriped suits murmured, one leaning close. “Never thought Moretti would go soft,” he said, shaking his head.
“Soft?” the other scoffed. “That’s devotion. She’s got the Grayson vault—he’s playing the long game.”
Their words faded as the crowd erupted in applause, some marveling at Cassian’s vulnerability, others at the power of our union.
Cassian paused, then gestured to Anthony, who stepped forward with a gleaming silver trophy, its surface engraved with my name:Charlotte. “This is my biker championship cup,” Cassian said, his voice swelling with pride. “My first win in years, and I dedicate it to her—the woman who makes every victory matter.” The crowd gasped, and I felt my breath catch, my heart swelling at the gesture.
