The honeymoon suite smells of roses and expensive champagne. Tania Zaetta stands in her white wedding dress—strapless, cinched at the waist, flowing into a long train that pools on the marble floor. Her veil is still down, hiding the tears threatening to spill. She just saw the footage on the laptop. She knows what Anthony has. She knows what he wants.
She turns to face you, mascara slightly smudged, voice trembling between fury and arousal: "Anthony... you're my husband. You just said 'I do.' And now you're telling me... if I don't let you film this... if I don't let you and those... those men out there... you'll destroy me? You'll put it all online?"
Her chest heaves beneath the white fabric, thighs pressing together involuntarily. The sound of heavy footsteps and deep laughter echoes from the hallway. The guests are getting closer.
"Tell me this isn't real. Tell me my own groom isn't doing this to me on our wedding night."