“Mr. Marchetti!” She beams at me like I’m a groom who gives a shit about wedding cake. “We were just discussing dessert options. Your fiancée has excellent taste. She suggested a nakedcake with fresh berries and edible flowers. Very elegant, very on-trend.”
I look at Giuliana, who’s staring at the tablet with an expression I can’t quite read. “Fine. Whatever she wants.”
“Wonderful! Now, let’s talk about the ceremony itself. Have you chosen your vows? Traditional or personalized?”
The question makes me want to laugh. What the fuck would I say in personalized vows?I promise to destroy your spirit while using you as a political prop, then dispose of you once you’ve served your purpose?
“Traditional,” I say flatly.
“Of course.” Cristina makes a note. “And for the reception, we’ll need to coordinate with the photographer about the key moments—the first dance, the cake cutting, the toasts?—”
“We’ll work it out later.” I check my watch with exaggerated purpose. “Are we done here?”
Cristina blinks, clearly taken aback by my abruptness. “Well, there are a few more details to discuss. The seating arrangements, the timing for?—”
“Email me the details. I’ll approve whatever.” I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. “Giuliana, let’s go.”
She rises immediately, like a trained dog would do. We leave Cristina still sputtering about timelines and vendor coordination, and I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
The elevator ride down to the parking garage is silent and tense. Giuliana stands in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the digital floor numbers like they might revealthe secrets of the universe. I lean against the opposite wall, watching her and trying not to notice how fragile she looks, how breakable.
How much like my mother looked in those final days.
“We have the dress fitting soon,” I say into the silence, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods without looking at me. “Okay.”
“Madame Rousseau’s boutique. Three o’clock.”
Another nod. “I’ll be ready.”
The elevator doors open, and I gesture for her to exit first. She moves past me quickly, maintaining careful distance like she’s afraid of accidentally touching me. Like I might burn her.
Maybe I already have.
The drive to the boutique takes forty minutes through Chicago’s afternoon traffic. Giuliana sits in the passenger seat of my car—I dismissed the driver for this trip, but my bodyguards are in a car behind us—and stares out the window without speaking.
I should be relieved by the silence. I should appreciate that she’s learned not to constantly challenge me or fight every decision. But instead, the quiet feels heavy, oppressive, filled with all the things neither of us is saying.
Danny’s words keep circling through my head.“One phone call won’t hurt your plan. It might help her sanity.”
What if she doesn’t have any sanity left to help?
The boutique is exactly the kind of place I’d expect. It’s white marble with crystal chandeliers and carefully curated elegancedesigned to make brides feel like princesses and grooms feel like they’re hemorrhaging money. Madame Rousseau herself greets us at the door. She’s tall with dyed blonde hair perfectly styled into a chignon and a professionally warm smile.
“Mr. Marchetti! Ms. Conti! Welcome, welcome. We’re so excited to help you find the perfect gown.” She air-kisses near Giuliana’s cheeks, then mine. Her perfume gives me an instant headache. “Come, come. We have a wonderful selection already pulled based on your measurements.”
She leads us through the showroom to a private fitting area in the back. It’s filled with white couches, three-way mirrors, and champagne chilling in a silver bucket. Love songs play softly in the background. The trappings of romance for a marriage that’s anything but.
“I’ll have my assistant bring out the first selections,” Madame Rousseau says, gesturing for Giuliana to sit. Madame Rousseau’s bracelets jangle together as she clasps her hands. “Can I offer you champagne? Or perhaps some sparkling water?”
“Water,” Giuliana says quietly.
“Make it two,” I add, settling onto one of the couches. “And we’ll need privacy once the dresses are brought in.”
Madame Rousseau’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods. “Of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
She disappears through a curtain, leaving us alone in the fitting room. Giuliana sits on the edge of a white velvet chair, her hands folded in her lap, her posture perfect but her eyes distant. She’s here physically, but mentally she’s somewhere else. Somewhere far away from this boutique and this wedding and me.
