The photo in Nicholas’s hand was slightly crumpled at the edges, but the image was terrifyingly clear. – News

The girl in the picture wore a sleeveless silk dress, her dark hair pinned back with a pearl clip. She was laughing, her head tilted slightly to the side. It wasn’t just a passing resemblance. It wasn’t a case of having the same shade of eyes or a similar jawline.

It was my face. Z

The small, distinct mole just beneath the collarbone. The slight asymmetry of the upper lip. The way her dark eyes seemed to look right through the lens. Looking at that photo was like staring into a mirror that had somehow captured a life I had never lived.

“Who is she?” My voice was barely a whisper, the coldness of the room finally seeping into my bones. The cut on my palm pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache, dripping a single bead of blood onto the plush rug beneath my feet.

Nicholas didn’t answer right away. He slid the photo back into his breast pocket, his long fingers moving with a terrifying, calculated precision. When he looked up, his gaze caught the blood on my hand. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean, monogrammed linen handkerchief, and wrapped it tightly around my palm. His grip was firm, unyielding, but surprisingly devoid of the violence I had braced myself for.

“Her name was Sofia,” Nicholas said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on the entire room. “And she was supposed to walk down the aisle of a private chapel in thirty minutes. But three hours ago, her car was pulled from the bottom of the Rio Grande. No survivors.”

The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. “If she’s dead… why am I wearing a wedding dress? Why did you buy me from my father?”

“Because the people who put her in that river don’t know she’s dead yet,” Nicholas stepped closer, his shadow completely engulfing me. The scent of rain, expensive cologne, and the faint, bitter metallic tang of gunpowder rolled off him. “And they cannot find out. Not tonight. The alliance between my family and the Alvarez syndicate depends entirely on this marriage. If the Alvarez faction thinks I backed out, or if they realize Sofia was eliminated before the ink on the treaty dried, El Paso becomes a slaughterhouse by midnight. Your father’s debt wasn’t a coincidence, Alma. I’ve been looking for you for three weeks.”

“You… you knew about me?”

“I know everything,” he said flatly. “I knew your father was a degenerate gambler who would eventually risk his own blood. I ensured his debts fell into the hands of men I control. I needed a ghost, Alma. And your father practically wrapped you up and handed you to me on a silver platter.”

The betrayal cut deeper than the glass in my hand. My own father hadn’t just lost me in a bad hand of cards; he had been a pawn in a game played by a monster.

Before I could speak, the older woman—the one who had handed me the dress—stepped back into the room. Her face was a mask of severe, unreadable lines. “The priest has arrived, Don Nicholas. And Señor Alvarez’s men are securing the perimeter. They are asking to see the bride.”

Nicholas nodded once, never breaking eye contact with me. “Put on the dress, Alma. If you play your part perfectly, you live in luxury. If you hesitate, if you cry, if you let them see even a flicker of doubt in your eyes… the men waiting outside will realize the deception. And they won’t just kill you. They will go back to that little house in El Paso and butcher your mother while your father watches.”

“You wouldn’t let them,” I breathed, trying to find a shred of humanity in his dark eyes.

Nicholas leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Try me.”

The silk of the white dress felt like ice against my skin. The older woman, whose name I learned was Teresa, moved with frantic speed, pinning my hair up, applying a heavy layer of dark red lipstick to match the girl in the photo, and dusting powder over the dark circles under my eyes.

When I looked in the full-length mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. The terrified girl from the kitchen in El Paso was gone. In her place stood a cartel bride, a beautiful ghost wearing a dead woman’s skin.

“Walk straight,” Teresa muttered, shoving a bouquet of white roses into my trembling hands. “Do not look at the guests. Look only at Nicholas.”

The chapel was located in the western wing of the estate. The walk down the dimly lit corridor felt like a march to the gallows. Every step in the high heels sent a jolt of pain up my legs, but the raw terror coursing through my veins kept me moving.

When the heavy oak doors of the chapel swung open, the scent of burning incense and expensive wax filled my senses. The room was small, lit only by dozens of flickering candles. There were no rows of smiling family members. Instead, about a dozen men in tailored suits stood along the walls, their hands subtly resting near their jackets.

At the altar stood Nicholas. He had changed his shirt; the dark, rain-soaked fabric was gone, replaced by a pristine white dress shirt and a black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back, and his face was entirely expressionless.

Next to him stood an older man with silver hair and a deeply scarred face—Alejandro Alvarez. The head of the syndicate. The man who believed I was his niece, Sofia.

“Ah,” Alvarez purred, his voice like grinding stones as I approached the altar. “She looks beautiful, Nicholas. A bit pale, perhaps? The nerves of the wedding day, no doubt.”

“She is eager to begin our life together, Alejandro,” Nicholas replied smoothly, extending his hand to me.

My fingers shook violently as I reached out. The moment my hand touched his, his grip tightened—not in comfort, but as a warning. Be still, his eyes commanded.

The priest, an old man whose hands shook as he held the Bible, began the ceremony in a low, rapid Spanish. I didn’t hear the words. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I kept my eyes locked on Nicholas’s collar, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest to keep myself from fainting.

“Nicholas Barrera, do you take this woman…”

“I do,” Nicholas said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, solid and unwavering.

“And you, Sofia Alvarez…”

The priest looked at me. Alejandro Alvarez leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my face. The tension in the room skyrocketed; I could feel the eyes of every armed man in the chapel drilling into my back. A single mistake, a wrong inflection in my voice, and the illusion would shatter.

I swallowed the lump of bile in my throat. I forced my chin up, channeling every ounce of the rage I had felt in my father’s kitchen.

“I do,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It was cold, hollow, and perfect.