"Yes," she breathes, the single word barely audible above the faint clicks of the cameras.
It's perfect.
The photographer captures it all. The world will see this and the world will believe it.
But when I stand, when I slide the enormous diamond ring onto her slender finger, when I pull her to me and kiss her in front of the entire world, I realize it’s not just for them.
It's not for the cameras, or for fucking Scorpione Nero.
It's for me.
For the part of me that wants to keep her safe by my side. Not for strategy or optics. Because the thought of her not being mine, of her being exposed, vulnerable, unprotected, is a terrifying vision I can't allow.
I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, my eyes never leaving hers. Her lips are soft, pliant beneath mine.
I pull back, my forehead resting against hers, my eyes still closed for a brief moment, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her against me. Her hand stays in mine, the diamond catching the last light of sunset. It's heavier than it looks, solid and cold between us. I’m still holding her like she might vanish if I let go.
"Do you think they bought it?" she whispers. She pulls back slightly, her eyes wide, shining. She's so damn beautiful in the golden light.
I nod, a tight, almost imperceptible movement. The lie is sold and the message sent.
What I don’t tell her is the truth.
I bought the lie.
I bought her.
And now, I don’t know how to keep her.
CHAPTER 25
NIKKI
I've known a lot of fake things in my life. Fake friends who only wanted my follower count. Fake smiles for brand deals I secretly hated. Fake eyelashes so aggressive they once flew off mid-interview on live television, which, for the record, was an absolute nightmare to explain.
But this? This proposal on the Ponte Vecchio, under the golden glow of the Florentine sunset?
It didn't feel fake.
Not when he got down on one knee, his broad shoulders filling my entire vision. Not when he said my name, "Nikki Ricci," like it meant something, like it was a sacred vow instead of a rehearsed line.
And definitely not when he kissed me, hard and breathless, as if he wanted the cameras to disappear, like he wanted to devour me right there, in front of God and all of Italy. My lips still tingle from that kiss.
We walk hand-in-hand through Florence, a scene ripped straight from a very expensive music video. Tourists stare, their mouths agape, their phones already out. A few brave souls clap, a smattering of applause that feels both genuine and utterly surreal.
Someone shouts "Auguri!" which I think means congratulations, but honestly, it all just sounds like noise. The diamond on my finger catches every last ray of sunlight.
Rafe nods to the gathering crowd, the barest acknowledgment of the chaos we've just created, a subtle tip of his head that somehow conveys both disdain and ownership. He pulls me closer, his hand a solid anchor around mine. But I can feel the tension in his grip. The way his thumb brushes my palm, over and over again, a restless, almost frantic movement, like he's grounding himself in the only thing that still feels solid amidst the swirling illusion.
And that thing is me.
Which is wild, because I'm not solid. I'm still spinning from that kiss. Spinning from that look in his eyes, raw and hungry and terrifyingly honest. Spinning from the way he whispered "they bought it" like it was a win, a brilliant strategic victory, but his tone cracked on the last word, betraying a fragility I never thought I'd hear from him.
We duck into a private car with tinted windows. The door shuts with a quiet thud, cutting off the world, silencing the last echoes of the crowd. No more pretending.
Except… we still are.
Aren't we? Or are we?
