Chapter 1: Vivita’s POV

"How did I end up here?"

No, seriously. How did I, Vivita Evangeline Ellsworth, a 20-year-old astronomy student who had her life completely figured out (sort of), end up wearing a massive white wedding ball gown, diamond-studded heels, and a 15-foot veil, preparing to walk down the aisle to marry a man I’ve never even met? A man whose nickname is literally Death?

Let me rewind. Two weeks ago, I was a normal college student. Well, as normal as one could be with a slightly eccentric personality and a mother who believed in tough love… the kind of tough love where she doesn’t hug you anymore and instead informs you out of the blue that you’re getting married. Yup, that happened.

I had just gotten back to my dorm, fully expecting to crash on my bed and contemplate why dark matter is the most mysterious thing in the universe—spoiler: it isn’t. The most mysterious thing in the universe, apparently, was my mother.

She was sitting there, in my dorm room, uninvited as always, looking far too calm for someone about to drop a nuclear bomb on my life. No hug, no smile, not even the usual “you look tired” jab. Just a simple declaration:

“Vivita, you’re getting married.”

Cue the mind explosion. “Excuse me, what?” I stammered, thinking maybe I misheard her because of all those sleepless nights staring at the stars.

She repeated, deadpan, like she was announcing the weather. “You. Are. Getting. Married.”

I blinked, waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, I went into full panic mode. “To whom, exactly? And why? And... WHAT?!” I wasn’t prepared for this. I didn’t even like weddings. Too many pastel flowers and too much smiling for my taste. I hadn’t even made friends who would be bridesmaids—unless you count my books, and I don’t think they’d fit into dresses.

She didn’t answer any of my very reasonable, very panicked questions. Just stared at me with that all-too-familiar look that said, ‘Don’t argue, or you’ll regret it.’

“If you want to repay me,” she finally said, in the most emotionless tone I’d ever heard, “you’ll get married.”

Repay her? For what, exactly? The thousands of awkward dinner conversations we’d had since she and my dad divorced when I was ten? The lack of emotional support? The fact that the most affection I’ve ever received from her came in the form of birthday cards with the words “Best wishes” hastily scrawled inside?

Fast forward to a meeting with Brian, the personal assistant to Domenico Livia de Santis, aka Death, aka the guy I was apparently going to marry. Oh, and in case you missed it, he’s in the mafia. You know, because my life wasn’t already a chaotic mess of black holes and unfinished assignments.

Brian had this air of professionalism that made the whole situation feel like I was negotiating a business merger rather than preparing for a marriage. “Mr. de Santis has asked if there are any specific arrangements you would like for the wedding,” he said, as if the groom-to-be hadn’t completely stood me up on our only planned meeting.

That’s when the rage hit. “Oh, I have arrangements all right,” I snapped, determined to make this entire ordeal as ridiculous as possible. If I was going to be forced into this nightmare, I was taking everyone down with me. “I want the biggest white wedding gown possible. At least 15 feet of veil. Diamond-studded heels. The venue should be decorated entirely in black—no exceptions. There should be at least twenty types of dishes in the buffet, and I will be the only person or thing in white. Except the food, obviously.”

I thought that would rattle them. You know, make them rethink this whole ridiculous setup. But, of course, Domenico, or Death, as he’s so dramatically called, wasn’t fazed. Not only did they deliver my ridiculous demands—they did it two days before the wedding. The gown, veil, and heels arrived in pristine condition, along with a confirmation of the venue's decor—black, as requested.

Which brings us to now. Here I was, standing in front of a mirror in the most absurdly beautiful gown I’ve ever seen, about to marry a man who was probably more comfortable holding a gun than a conversation. The veil draped over my face felt suffocating, but it was probably the least stressful part of my day.

“Is this really happening?” I muttered to myself. A part of me hoped I’d wake up and this would all be a bad dream. But no, my reflection in the mirror confirmed it. My diamond-studded heels pinched my feet as if to say, yes, Vivita, this is real. And you agreed to this.

“Let’s get this over with,” I sighed, gripping my bouquet a little too tightly as the doors to the aisle opened.

As I walked down, I scanned the room for anyone I knew. A friend? A cousin? Hell, even a random acquaintance would do. But nope. No familiar faces. Just a sea of Domenico’s men, all dressed in black, all looking like they’d rather be anywhere but here. I was the only one in white, just as I’d requested, and the contrast was as dramatic as my life had become.

And then, I saw him.

Domenico Livia de Santis. Or as I now call him, my future husband and possible funeral director. He was tall. Like, really tall. 6’7” of pure intimidation. And handsome—ugh, of course he was handsome. Because why wouldn’t my life be a cliché on top of everything else? Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen a shred of joy since the dawn of time.

As I reached the altar, the priest began the usual spiel. “If anyone has any objections to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

In response, Domenico’s men pulled out their guns. I’m not kidding. I almost burst out laughing. The whole situation felt like something out of a bad mafia movie. Here I was, standing next to a man whose nickname is Death, and his crew was ready to shoot anyone who dared to object. Instead of being scared, I giggled. Yes, giggled. Because what else do you do when your wedding feels like a poorly written thriller?

The priest, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He finished the ceremony as quickly as possible, and soon, Domenico and I were exchanging vows. Well, I exchanged vows. Domenico just said the bare minimum. Typical.

Then came the kiss. My heart raced, not out of excitement but sheer dread. Was I supposed to kiss this man? What was protocol for kissing someone who probably hasn’t felt a single emotion in years?

Before I could process it, Domenico bent down—because, let’s face it, he’s a giant—and gently kissed my forehead. It wasn’t what I expected. I’d braced myself for something cold, detached. But this? This was... oddly tender. It threw me off.

And just like that, it was over. I was officially Mrs. Death. Or Mrs. de Santis, but Death had a better ring to it.

So, back to my original question.

How did I end up here?

Well, the answer’s simple, isn’t it? Life, like space, is chaotic and unpredictable. It doesn’t follow the rules, and sometimes, it throws you into the orbit of someone like Domenico Livia de Santis. Now all I had to do was figure out how to survive in a world that made even less sense than the universe I was trying to study.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from astronomy, it’s that chaos can be beautiful. Even if it means marrying Death.