Cameron
I had been dragged to the altar, wearing my father's wedding suit and with anything but a smile on my face. I was grimacing at it all. The hall, the chapel that is, looked completely different to the rest of the abandoned hospital. The moment I walked in it was as though I had been transferred to an entirely different reality.
It was beautiful. That was the worst of it.
There were guests in the most exquisite gowns people I had seen in passing, none of which I would have invited to my actual wedding. It was full of yes-men, people who had grown close to my father only in enabling his ruthless nature. They smiled at me as though this was supposed to be the best day of my life.
They were paper smiles. And I had every intention of burning them to the ground.
There was no one that I wanted to be there.
I imagined Leo cracking a thousand jokes humiliating me as any best man should. Mel would be shrieking, shoving anyone to grab the bouquet as it was thrown. Theo would be glowering at me, but at the end of it, after a stern handshake, he would nod slightly, a little incline of the head which would mean everything to Alara. She always did want Theo and me to get along. Or at least be civil.
And then my thoughts were consumed by her; by how she would look at me as she walked down the aisle if this had been our day if we had meticulously planned it together, and everything was perfect. Her smile would break the universe, shattering anything that you once believed light could emanate from because her smile was just that bright.
She would have her hair framing her face, with intricate braids that fed into each other, in a classic milkmaid's braid. She would laugh and throw her head back. Her makeup would be soft and graceful, with anything but a red lip because I knew how much she despised red lipstick, no the darkest it would get would be a mauve but I knew she would use the softest of pinks, as though she wasn't wearing lipstick at all.
She would be ethereal.
Stunning beyond belief, and she would stare into my eyes, with her doe ones, wide and full of possibilities, she would be happy. Truly and utterly happy, without a care in the world, her soft palm closed onto mine as the Pastor announced us man and wife, and she would lean forward ever so slightly, waiting for me to go the distance, waiting for me to come to her because she knew her worth.
She knew she was my world.
And I would cross oceans to get to her.
And the kiss would be perfect, soft and beautiful pressed between us in a promise, a vow that would not be broken even by death.
I stood at the altar alone, the pastor looked nervous, pulling at his white colour amongst a black shirt, he whispered to me, "I'm sorry," and my face must have given away the surprise that ran through me, "I don't want to do this but Mr Grayson has my wife, I have to do this. Please forgive me, father, for I have sinned," he whispered a prayer, before offering me a weak smile.
I couldn't return it but I nodded in understanding, as at that moment we were both trapped by my father, who would use anyone we cared about to make us bend to his whim. He wanted me to be as malleable as the iron that melted in a blacksmith's forge, but the thing about iron was that it became stronger once exposed to fire, and after it had cooled down it would be just as dangerous as the fire it was created from.
And my father would have to be wary of when the iron of my soul cooled.
"Please rise, as the bride will make her entrance now," the announcement was made by a disembodied voice, one I didn't recognise or care to familiarise myself with.
My heart stalled a moment, as I stared at the oak doors, with their gilded edges and fake gold, a facade like all the achingly happy people around me. People were watching my demise, watching the manipulation of the great Cameron Grayson, and I was sure they were revelling in it.
There were people here who were my father's adversaries, gangs that had been mortal enemies here to witness the binding of the Grayson and Mortello names.
They were here to see the Blood Queen.
Alara Mortello was the key to all their despicable desires, the key to a fortune and power that was insurmountable.
I burnt up inside, and excruciating pain rushed through me, as I was charred from the inside out. I felt sick, my stomach churning and my heart in my throat, I couldn't swallow it down and it continued to thunder there, choking the breath and life from me.
I couldn't do this.
But I couldn't move either.
I had counted there being five separate snipers and marksmen all with guns trained on me, one wrong move and I would be dead. And what then?
If I was dead, what was stopping my father from destroying Alara?
My Alara.
The Bridal March began with a soft piano radiating through the hushed silence before an expert harp began to join in adding a lilt to the tone, so it sounded almost surreal, like a fairy tale. Though this was anything but a happy ending. There were flowers dotted around, orchids and white roses all around with baby breaths in between.
There were children I had never seen before, scampering down the aisle leaving flower petals in their wake, and they smiled, so untouched by the cruelty of the world, and I prayed in this supposed house of God that those smiles would remain on those faces. That they would get out of this life, and live full beautiful ones away from the torture that was the life of a child in the underworld.
Their smiles shone and a little boy holding the rings, rushed over to me, he had a gap-toothed smile beaming at me as he almost tripped over his own two feet. He proudly presented them to me and smiled and I couldn't destroy the hope in this child so I gave a small smile back.
He whispered to me, "Do you love her? Do you love the Blood Queen?"
So the rumours had spread even to the children, and though it felt nauseating to call her that, to make her associated with such destruction when she was the purest soul to ever exist, my mind fixated on the first part of the question, "Yes, I love her very much. More than the Earth, my love is greater than the power of the stars, so powerful the moon is jealous,"
He pulled a face mulling over my words before breaking out into a grin, "I think I love someone like that too," and he looked over at one of the girls behind him. He waved at her, and she grinned back and it remind me of how simpler life had been as children, there was no miscommunication, or fear if you wanted to be friends if you liked someone you would just tell them.
"I'm going to marry her too, I'm going to marry Avery," and then he pulled on my blazer sleeve, eyes wide with unimaginable hope, "Will you come to my wedding mister? Please, I'd really like you there," he looked down at the rings and jumped up as a new idea came to him almost flinging the rings across the room, but he steadied them just in time, laughing as he did, "You can carry the rings then! It will be perfect,"
I knelt down a little and in my periphery, I saw guns follow me down the floor, but I didn't care about them, not when I needed to preserve the hope and innocence in this child, "Of course, I'll come to your wedding. And I'll even carry the rings for you."
"Yay, thank you, mister," he was about to turn around and run off when he spun back around, "What's your name mister?"
"Cameron," and I deliberately did not say my last name.
"Cameron! That's a nice name, my name is Alejandro, but people call me Ali for short," I nodded as he turned around and pointed at a figure, who had their hat dipped low so you could barely see their face, "That's my dad over there. He says he's a good friend of yours! So when they asked the kids who wanted to carry the rings, he made me say I would. Oh," he leaned forward ever so slightly with a grin on his face, whispering in my ear, "He said to tell you that today you are, vicini come fratelli."
And my heart stalled for a second, and as Alejandro ran off, my eyes met the mysterious man that was his father, the hat for a millisecond lifted so I could see his face, tanned and smooth, strong with a shadow of stubble, but it was his eyes that gave it away, the darkest brown you could imagine, an Italian's eyes.
Il Venditore was here.
Alonso Torres was here.