Fermented Desires

Beauty and Brutality

The lace scratched her collarbone.

Even through the silk lining of the gown, Isabella felt every seam, every stitch designed to bind her in place. She sat perfectly still in the tall-backed chair, staring at her reflection. Her skin glowed like porcelain under the soft vanity lights, her lips stained a pale wine red, and her eyes lined in soft gold. But none of it looked like her.

It looked like a doll.

Behind her, Zahara adjusted the veil with clinical precision. "Tilt your chin," she said, voice like ice clinking in a glass. "Don't slouch. You're not walking into a funeral."

That's exactly what this is, Isabella thought.

A stylist fussed over her bouquet—white orchids, winter roses, and delicate baby's breath, all tied with a satin ribbon the color of bone. Hidden beneath the flowers, Isabella could feel the slight pinch of the tracker clasped around her wrist, disguised as part of the corsage. The air smelled of hairspray and high-end perfume, too thick to breathe.

The door creaked open. Everyone in the room stilled.

Giovanni Vinoir entered, dressed in an ash-grey suit, his presence heavier than the silence he carried with him. His polished shoes clicked on the marble as he approached. He didn't smile.

He didn't need to.

"I see the dress fits," he said, scanning her like merchandise. "You clean up nicely, Isabella."

She kept her gaze steady. "Is that what I am today? Clean?"

Giovanni smirked. "No, dear. You're valuable. Clean is just a bonus."

He knelt in front of her, like a mockery of reverence, and placed a hand under her chin, tilting her face up. His wedding ring glinted in the light as he whispered, "Smile for the cameras. Your future depends on it."

Then he kissed her forehead. She didn't flinch, but her stomach twisted.

As he stood and left, Zahara handed her the bouquet. "Time to walk, little dove," she said, eyes sharp. "Don't flutter."

The ceremony space was something out of a fairytale—if the fairytale were written by someone with a cruel sense of irony. A white marble aisle stretched through the vineyard chapel, lined with hanging orchids and glowing lanterns. Doves cooed softly in cages strung with pearls. Everything smelled like money.

The guests—all polished, painted, and powerful—rose to their feet.

Isabella took her first step.

Zahara walked beside her, arm linked tight. Cameras flashed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A string quartet played something delicate and hollow. Isabella focused on the music—counting the beats like steps toward a guillotine.

She could see Leonardo at the altar. He looked like something from a royal portrait: tall, dark-haired, dressed in white with gold embroidery. He didn't blink.

As she neared, he leaned in and whispered: "You've never looked more obedient."

Her fingers tightened around the bouquet. She wanted to crush it.

The priest began the ceremony, his voice even and rehearsed. "We are gathered today in the spirit of unity, to witness the binding of two powerful lineages..."

Leonardo beamed for the cameras, the perfect groom. When it was his turn to speak, he didn't hesitate.

"Isabella," he said, turning to her with hands gently folded over hers. "You were made for this. For me. You bring grace to this union, beauty to this family, and soon, heirs to our legacy. I vow to keep you safe, to honor the vision our parents have built. With you, I will build an empire. With you, I will rule."