I need to get out. Now.
Before I do something we can't take back.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lorenzo
The wedding coordinator's voice grates against my skull like broken glass.
"And how did you two first realize you were in love?"
I force my expression neutral while Sophia's fingers tighten around mine. Her thumb brushes my skin and it’s like a lit fuse.
Fuck.
I fight the urge to clench my fist.
"It wasn't one moment." Sophia's voice carries that quality that makes everyone lean in to listen. "More like... puzzle pieces clicking together. One day I looked at him and just knew."
The coordinator, Mrs. Whitmore, scribbles notes with her fountain pen.
"How romantic." The words drip skepticism. "And you, Mr. Sartori? When did you know?"
"The moment she walked into my life."
The truth, dressed up as a lie for this woman with the fountain pen. The most dangerous kind of lie there is.
Sophia's eyes find mine, and for a second, the performance drops.
I see surprise. I look away.
"Well." Mrs. Whitmore adjusts her glasses. "The venue certainly accommodates your security requirements. Three hundred guests, you said?"
"That's correct." I shift in the uncomfortable chair, hyperaware of every point where Sophia's body touches mine. Her thigh pressed against my leg, her shoulder brushing my arm, the heat of her palm in my hand.
"Perhaps we should tour the outdoor garden space." Mrs. Whitmore stands, smoothing her skirt. "Spring weddings are lovely with the cherry blossoms?—"
Glass doors burst open. Cameras flash.
"Lorenzo! Sophia! Over here!"
"Is it true you're marrying?"
"How long have you been together?"
Sophia freezes against me. Twenty photographers surge forward, their cameras machine-gun rapid. Security materializes from corners, but they're already too close.
"Move." I pull Sophia behind me, shielding her with my body. "Now."
Dante appears at my elbow, already coordinating extraction. More flashes blind me as we push toward the exit. Questions hammer from every direction.
"When's the wedding date?"
"Sophia, are you being forced?—"
"Back off," I say. The words are quiet, but the pack of photographers freezes. One of them actually lowers his camera. The noise level drops from a roar to a buzz. That’s better.
We burst through the side door into blinding sunlight. The Bentley idles at the curb. Dante always thinks ahead. I guideSophia inside, sliding in after her. The door slams, cutting off the shouting.
