THADDEUS BLACK The Devil Wears High Heels

Aria Valente never asked for any of this red mess.

Seriously, red? At her own damn wedding? She used to imagine white, or hell, even blue-anything but this shade that screams danger. The cathedral felt like a mouth swallowing her whole. Ceilings way too high, saints in stained glass all judging her, like they could smell the outsider stink on her. And the dress-don't get her started. Heavy as regret, clinging like a bad omen.

She could feel every set of eyes burning into her back. The Valentes, holding their breath, praying she wouldn't bolt. The Morettis, betting she would. Spoiler: she didn't.

And there's Dante, of course. Front and center, carved from ice and arrogance. Black suit, dead eyes, that same smug look like he'd just checkmated her in a game she never agreed to play.

The priest drones: "Join hands." Like it's simple.

Aria's fingers? Steady as stone. She kind of wished they'd shake, just so he'd know how much she hated this. But no. She learned early-never let them see you sweat.

Dante's hand covers hers-warm, rough. Ugh, she hates herself for noticing that.

He leans in, voice just for her. "Red suits you. Like you walked away from a fight."

She shoots right back, flat as glass. "Black's yours. Like you never left the grave."

His eyes flicker-not mad, not exactly. Something else. Something sharp and ugly.

The priest keeps babbling. Their families look like mannequins-nobody breathing, nobody blinking. Her uncle's in the back, smug and satisfied, like he just closed out a stock trade. Because that's all this is: The Valentes bring the cash, the Morettis bring the muscle, and now? Now they own each other.

Aria's cage even comes with gold trim.

"Kiss the bride."

Neither of them moves. For a second, it's a standoff.

Then Dante's hand ghosts up her jaw-barely there, like she might bite. The kiss lands quick, cold. A deal, not a promise.

She smiles into it, knives in her teeth. "Hope you're good at sleeping with one eye open."

His hand clamps down on her waist. *Go ahead, try me.*

The applause? Might as well be thunder for a funeral. The room's full of liars, clapping for a lie.