Everything around me felt like a cruel performance—an elaborate play Enrico had staged down to the second, where I was forced to walk onto the set and smile while my life burned.
The white dress fit me perfectly.
That was the worst part.
It didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like a weight. A sentence draped over my shoulders. Every step toward the improvised altar in the private garden carried me deeper into the hell he had built with careful hands and cold intent.
Enrico stood at the front with a small group of guests—handpicked, controlled, curated. He looked flawless in a dark suit, the image of a man who belonged in headlines.
When he turned and saw me, he smiled.
A warm, affectionate smile I knew was a lie.
He offered his hand. I had no choice but to take it.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured close to my ear, tenderness performed with the precision of a man who’d practiced it in mirrors.
“Save it,” I whispered back, keeping my smile fixed for the small audience. The corners of my mouth ached from holding it.
His fingers tightened around mine—just enough pressure to remind me that my body, my face, my voice were props he could position wherever he wanted.
The ceremony was short. Intimate on purpose. Carefully designed to look private, reserved—like we were protecting our “privacy” from a world that was supposedly too intrusive.
Every word the officiant said echoed strangely in my head, repeating like a verdict.
I barely heard the vows.
I heard the sound of my own blood.
I heard the scrape of the past—of a cathedral, a bouquet crushed in my hands, a man sayingnoand turning his back.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant announced.
My heart clenched so hard it hurt.
Enrico turned to me with practiced slowness. He cupped my face gently—gentle enough to look romantic, firm enough to remind me I couldn’t flinch. His gray eyes held mine for a brief, intense second.
Then his lips brushed mine.
It was quick.
Cold in intention—yet warm enough to drag up memories I’d spent years burying. The scent of him. The pressure. The familiarity I wanted to hate more than anything.
Applause rose around us—polite, discreet. I fought nausea and kept smiling.
Enrico’s arm slid around my waist, guiding me through the “happy couple” routine as if he’d rehearsed it. As if he hadn’t once humiliated me at an altar and left me to bleed in front of strangers.
Minutes later, a commotion stirred near the edge of the garden.
Photographers.
Journalists.
They appeared as if summoned—cameras raised, voices calling our names, capturing the perfect “unexpected leak.”
Enrico’s surprise looked real.
His performance of shielding me from the cameras—his hand at my back, his body angled protectively—was so flawless it made my stomach turn.
