“Yes.” I tug my top down with a sigh and return to my bed, resuming our video call. “What are you up to?”
“I’m on break,” she says. “I have one more class today.”
“You’re getting close to the finish line.” I flop back onto the mattress and prop the phone against the pillow so Gabi can’t see my shirt. “You must be excited about that.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “Not that a degree matters when my father’s busy finalizing a marriage contract.”
Gabi uses the camera view to apply a fresh coat of pink lipstick and wind her long black hair up into a topknot. She is, as always, adorably fashionable in a sequined body suit, a dusty rose tulle skirt, and a fuzzy white sweater that could have beenknitted by angels. She looks like she just stepped out of Carrie Bradshaw’s closet. More impressively, these pieces are her own creations.
She’s talented and beautiful, and I hate that she’ll be wasted on a man like Riccardo Venturi. He’s a distant cousin of the Vitales, but he’s also a total prick. When he’s not running his obnoxious mouth, he’s running crypto-bro scams and blowing his cash on escorts and high-end cocaine. He has the personality of a wet paper bag and a bad case of affluenza, and I can’t think of a worse match for Gabi. But this arrangement was made between their families years ago, and truthfully, it’s the only way Riccardo could get a woman to marry him.
“You can still carve out a life of your own,” I tell Gabs, trying to instill some hope.
In our world, most arranged marriages are a front. The couples rarely spend any actual time together.
“We’ll see.” She glances at me briefly. “Have you heard anything about…you know?”
My gut clenches at the reference to Grant Ellison. It’s something that’s been on my mind far too often, and clearly I’m not the only one.
“His wife raised the alarm,” I tell her. “They’re keeping it quiet for now. His campaign manager doesn’t want to rattle potential donors.”
“Should we be worried?” She frowns.
Realistically, we should be. Nothing went as planned with Grant Ellison, and the fallout could be messy. But I don’t want her to stress over it.
“We don’t know how it’s going to play out,” I say. “The best thing we can do right now is stay focused and carry on like normal.”
“I know.” She blows out a breath. “Speaking of, how’s the wedding planning going without me?”
“Fine.” I force a smile. “Val’s got everything under control.”
Gabi pauses to study me, and I know she senses something is off. We’ve always been more like best friends than cousins—bonding over our similar interests from a young age. She knows me well, but even she doesn’t know the truth about this engagement to Matteo.
I’m saved from further questioning when her dog alarm sounds in the form of Beppe barking at her, alerting her that it’s time for class.
“Crap.” She checks the time. “I have to go.”
“It’s all good.” I blow her a kiss. “We’ll catch up later.”
5
ABELLA
It’s been ten days since my father and Matteo sprang the news of my impending marriage on me. Between my father’s implied threats and my stalker’s, I’ve hardly slept. Late one night, in a moment of bravery or stupidity, I texted Matteo asking if we could talk—hoping I could still make him see reason. Needless to say, he’s been avoiding me ever since.
None the wiser, Valentina has been steamrolling ahead, holding me hostage in the hellscape she likes to call wedding planning.
Every waking moment I’m not at work has been consumed by discussions of menus, color swatches, timelines, flowers, music, and tablescapes. She hauls her wedding dossier around like a bible and corners me with it at every opportunity. If I didn’t already know this is how she operates under stress, I might think she was trying to convince me to join a cult.
My friends have all rallied for the occasion, offering their assistance, and Gabi’s already been by multiple times. But it still seems we’ve gotten very little accomplished, and Valentina hassince temporarily banned her from the premises, citing that our planning sessions have just turned into boozy brunches.
I’m exhausted and on edge as I try to sneak out on Sunday morning.
“Abella!” Valentina yells after me, her heels clacking against the tile as she shuffles to the door and blocks my exit. She’s wearing a militant expression and the black cape dress I shopped for her, which means she’s in business mode.
“Marone,” I mutter under my breath.
“Where do you think you’re going?” She glares at me.
