Luca’s hand tightens imperceptibly against my back. “Giuliana, this is Mayor Castellano. Mayor, my fiancée, Dr. Giuliana Conti.”
Doctor. He actually used my title, probably because it makes me sound more impressive and more worthy of a man in his position.
“Charmed.” The mayor takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles, making my skin crawl. “I must say, Luca, you’vebeen keeping this lovely lady quite hidden. The entire city has been absolutelybuzzingwith curiosity about your sudden engagement.”
“Some things are worth keeping private,” Luca responds smoothly, pulling me closer against his side.
The movement presses me against the hard muscle of his torso, and I’m acutely aware of his body heat seeping through the thin silk of my gown, the solid strength of him that could crush me without effort.
My body registers his proximity with a traitorous flutter of awareness that makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
This is the man who had me beaten and destroyed my life. Any physical response to him is a betrayal of everything I should feel.
“Until the time is right to share them with the world,” Luca finishes.
The mayor’s eyes flick between us, shrewd and sharp despite his friendly demeanor. “Indeed. Well, congratulations to you both. I look forward to the wedding. I assume I’ll be receiving an invitation?”
A question and a threat all in one.
Luca is unfazed. “Of course. We wouldn’t dream of celebrating without the city’s leadership present.”
They continue talking, discussing things I don’t understand—and don’t care to understand.
Territorial boundaries disguised as zoning regulations, profit sharing masked as economic development initiatives.
I stand there like an ornament, smiling when appropriate, nodding at the right moments, playing the role of the devoted fiancée who’s too enamored with her handsome husband-to-be to pay attention to his business dealings.
Inside, I’m screaming.
I hate them. I hate them all.
We move through the crowd, and it’s the same everywhere—powerful men deferring to Luca’s judgment.
Women study me with expressions ranging from curiosity to envy.
I watch how people part for him like he’s royalty and how conversations pause when he approaches.
How even the most influential people in this room carefully weigh their words before speaking to him.
They’reterrifiedof him. Every single one of them.
And I’m trapped on his arm, his prisoner disguised as his prize.
“Luca Marchetti.”
I turn to see the man who was studying me earlier approach with a young woman at his side.
Viktor Torrino, I assume.
He’s tall and distinguished, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, with silver hair and the kind of presence that commands attention without effort.
The woman beside him is stunning.
She has ice-blonde hair and is willowy.
She’s wearing a white gown that looks like it’s come straight from the runway, her blue eyes assessing me like I’m an ant under her designer shoe.
“Viktor,” Luca says, and I feel his posture shift slightly. He’s more alert, more focused. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Giuliana Conti.” Oh, now the doctor title has been removed. How nice.
