After My Groom Poisoned Me, He Married His Mistress Instead

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my dressing room in the West Syndicate headquarters, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. I stood before the full-length mirror, examining my reflection with clinical precision. The white gown hugged my curves perfectly—a strategic choice that concealed the twin knives holstered at my thighs and the smaller blade tucked into my garter belt.

"Perfect for a wedding," I murmured to myself, "or a funeral."

My fingers traced the intricate lace pattern on the bodice, a gift from Kaiser's own hands. He had commissioned it specifically for today—our day. After years of blood and bullets, of building his empire together, we would finally stand as equals before his men and mine.

The door opened behind me with a soft click.

"Kaiser," I said, turning with a smile that froze on my lips.

He wasn't alone.

Kaiser stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway. Behind him loomed Vincent Moretti, the Chicago cartel boss whose territory we'd been negotiating for months. Two of Kaiser's most trusted guards flanked them, their expressions unreadable.

"Eileen," Kaiser's voice was cold, detached—a stranger's voice coming from the man who had shared my bed, my battles, my life. "There's been a change of plans."

I straightened, my hand instinctively moving toward my thigh. "What kind of change?"

"The wedding is off." His eyes—those eyes I'd once believed held love for me—were now empty pools of calculation. "To secure the peace treaty with Chicago and protect our interests, I'm handing you over to Vincent as a hostage bride."

The room tilted beneath my feet. "Kaiser, what are you—"

"It's already arranged," he cut me off. "Vincent has agreed to our terms in exchange for you."

Something wasn't right. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. I tried to take a step forward, but my foot dragged across the floor. "You've drugged me," I realized aloud, horror washing over me.

Vincent stepped forward, his thick fingers brushing my cheek in a mockery of tenderness. "Such a beautiful bride for such a handsome devil. I always wondered what Kaiser saw in you, but now I understand."

I lunged at him despite my failing body, but my movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. One of the guards struck me across the face with his pistol, and darkness swallowed me whole.

---

Consciousness returned in fragments—the rumble of an engine, the smell of leather and cigar smoke, the bite of zip ties cutting into my wrists.

I blinked awake in the back of an armored SUV, my wedding dress now stained with blood from a cut above my eye. Across from me sat Vincent Moretti, his meaty hands clasped together as he studied me like a specimen.

"Finally awake, princess?" His accent was thick, mocking. "From Queen of NYC to my personal property. How does it feel?"

I tested my bonds, twisting my wrists against the plastic restraints. "Kaiser wouldn't dare—"

"Kaiser doesn't have the balls to stand up to me," Vincent laughed, revealing yellowed teeth. "Not when his precious empire is at stake."

I focused on my right thumb, applying pressure to dislocate it—an old trick to slip free of restraints. But my muscles refused to cooperate, trembling uselessly against my skin.

"What's wrong, little fighter?" Vincent leaned forward, his breath hot against my face. "Can't escape anymore?"

Realization dawned cold and terrible. Whatever Kaiser had given me was still working through my system, paralyzing my combat instincts.

"You're broken," Vincent whispered, his fingers trailing down my throat. "Just like a normal girl now."

When I didn't respond, his hand closed around my throat, squeezing until black spots danced before my eyes. "I think we need to establish some new rules."

---

Three years passed in a haze of humiliation and pain.

In Vincent's Chicago compound, I became less than human—a trophy to be displayed and abused. The shock collar around my neck ensured my compliance when Kaiser's poison had left my body too weak to fight.

"Serve drinks to my men," Vincent ordered one night, forcing me into a dress that barely covered my thighs.

I moved mechanically among his soldiers, tray in hand, feeling their eyes crawl over me like insects.

"Look at her," one sneered to his companion. "Used to be somebody in New York."

"Better watch yourself," another whispered as I passed. "She might still have some fight left."

But I didn't. Not anymore. The nerve agent had done its work well.

They threw me into the fighting pit for their entertainment—a spectacle of the once-great Eileen Romero reduced to a punching bag. I couldn't dodge, couldn't strike back with any force. Only endure.

Afterward, barely conscious, I dragged myself to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in a cracked mirror. Blood trickled from my split lip, and bruises bloomed across my cheekbone.

"I will survive this," I whispered to my broken image, the words a sacred vow. "I will survive, and they will pay."

Behind me, Vincent's laughter echoed down the hall—the sound of my living hell.

But even as my body failed me, something inside remained unbroken. Something that whispered of revenge.