My blood turns to ice. He stands three feet away, looking every inch the grieving uncle. But I know better. I see the calculation in his eyes, the barely contained fury beneath his concerned expression.
"Uncle." The word tastes like ash.
Marina stiffens beside me, clearly sensing the danger even if she doesn't understand it. Lorenzo's grip on my waist tightens, possessive and protective at once.
"You look beautiful, my dear." Francesco's voice drips false warmth. "Your mother would be so proud."
The mention of my mother is a knife between my ribs. How dare he speak of her? How dare he stand here and pretend to care when he sold me like cattle?
"Thank you." I force the words out through clenched teeth.
Francesco's gaze shifts to Lorenzo, and the temperature drops ten degrees.
Lorenzo
Francesco's smile could cut glass. "Lorenzo, you've certainly made quite the impression on my niece."
The bastard's playing to the crowd already. Three couples have drifted closer, pretending to admire the ice sculpture while their ears strain for every word. This is what Francesco wants. Witnesses to whatever narrative he's spinning.
"Sophia makes her own choices," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Two hours. We need to survive two hours of this circus before we can leave.
"Of course she does." Francesco's voice carries just enough to reach our growing audience. "Though I imagine living in your compound provides quite the... influence. Such dedication, keeping her so close. So protected."
There it is. The implication that I'm holding her prisoner, that this engagement is coercion disguised as romance. He wants me to react, to show the violence that simmers beneath my surface. Give these vultures something to whisper about tomorrow.
I pull Sophia closer instead, pressing a kiss to her temple. She melts into me perfectly, playing her part.
"When you find someone worth protecting, you do whatever it takes," I say, loud enough for our audience. "I'm sure you understand that, Francesco."
His jaw tightens. Good. Let him choke on his own game.
"Such devotion." Francesco gestures broadly, ensuring everyone sees his theatrical concern. "To think, just weeks ago she was grieving her dear mother, and now here she is, so madly in love. It's almost like a fairy tale."
The timeline implication hangs in the air. Too fast, too convenient. He's building doubt in every listening ear. Did Lorenzo Sartori take advantage of a grieving girl?
Sophia's hand finds mine, squeezing tight. I can feel her trembling with rage, but her face shows only adoration when she looks up at me.
"Sometimes you just know," she says, her voice carrying that perfect note of breathless romance. "When someone saves you, really saves you, everything else falls away."
Christ, she's good at this. Better than she should be.
Francesco's expression shows frustration. He's not getting what he wants from us.
"And living together already," he continues, relentless. "In your family compound, no less. How... traditional."
More implications. More seeds of doubt about consent, about choice, about whether Sophia is here willingly.
"Family is everything," I say simply. "My brothers and sister have welcomed Sophia completely. She's one of us now."
She smiles up at me, and for a moment I forget we're performing.
Francesco watches us. The game isn't working. We're not cracking, not revealing the cracks he needs to exploit.
"Well," Francesco says finally, his voice carrying resignation mixed with something else—warning maybe. "I suppose I'm happy for you both. Young love is so... precious."
"Thank you, Uncle," Sophia says, her voice steady despite the tension radiating from her body.
Francesco nods, that false smile still in place. "Enjoy your party."
