The grand cathedral stood as a testament to opulence, its vaulted ceilings soaring high above, adorned with intricate carvings that told tales of old. Chandeliers of crystal hung like frozen rain, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. Every pew was filled with guests clad in the finest attire—powerful figures from the mafia world mingling with the elites of society, their eyes fixed on the altar with bated breath.

The scent of roses and jasmine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of burning candles, but you barely noticed. Your breath felt trapped in your chest, your lungs constricted by the weight of the ivory gown you wore. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, the lace intricately woven to hug your form, its long, flowing train trailing behind you like a bridal banner. But to you, the dress was no symbol of beauty—it was a shackle, a chain that bound you to the man standing across from you.

Jungkook Jeon.

He stood before you in a tailored black suit that exuded power and precision, every detail flawless. His sharp features could have been carved from stone, his expression unreadable. But it was his eyes—cold, dark, and unfeeling—that held you captive, like a predator sizing up its prey.

From the front row, your stepmother watched with a smug, satisfied smirk. Every gem encrusting her rings caught the light, glittering as brightly as her ambition. This union was her doing, her machinations to secure power and influence, trading the future of her stepdaughter for her own gain.

The priest's voice echoed through the vast cathedral, reciting the vows meant to bind two souls together. But to you, they felt like chains tightening with every word.

When it was Jungkook's turn to speak, his voice was low, steady, and devoid of emotion.

“I, Jungkook Jeon, take thee, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Each word was a blade, cutting deeper into your resolve. Around them, whispers rippled through the guests—some murmured enviously about your new position as the mafia queen-to-be, while others exchanged glances filled with pity, sensing the storm that loomed over the union.

Your hands trembled as Jungkook slipped the ring onto your finger, the cool metal a physical reminder of your fate. His touch was precise, deliberate, and unyielding, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

The priest pronounced them husband and wife, and applause erupted, a hollow sound that barely registered in your ears. The room blurred, the faces indistinct as Jungkook stepped closer.

His lips met yours in a kiss—soft but perfunctory, a performance for the watching crowd. There was no warmth, no tenderness, only a cold finality that sent a chill through your veins.

When he pulled back, his face remained stoic, but his voice dropped low, meant only for your ears.

“From now on, you’re mine. No one will take you from me—not even yourself.”