The words land like blows. Not because they’re accusations, though they are, but because they’re an admission of defeat. Of giving up. Of the slow erasure of self that I recognize intimately from watching it happen to my mother.
“Go inside,” I tell her, my voice rough. “You’re cold.”
“I’m not cold.” But she’s shaking, and I can’t tell if it’s from the temperature or from trying to hold back sobs. “I’m just—I can’t?—”
Her composure shatters completely. One moment she’s standing there with that careful mask, and the next she’s pressing both hands to her face, shoulders shaking with sobs she can’t contain anymore. The sound of it is broken and raw and wrong in every way that matters.
People are staring now. An elderly couple walking past shoots us concerned looks. A young woman slows her steps, clearly debating whether to intervene.
“Inside,” I say again, more forcefully this time. I reach for her arm, intending to guide her back into the boutique where she can fall apart without an audience.
She jerks away from my touch like I’ve burned her. “Don’t—don’t touch me. Don’t pretend you care. Just—” Another sob chokes off her words. “Just let me cry, okay? Let me have this one thing. Let me mourn what my life was supposed to be before you destroyed it.”
The elderly couple has stopped now, the man pulling out his phone. Shit. The last thing I need is some concerned citizen calling the police because they think I’m abusing my fiancée on a public street.
Which, technically, I am. Just not in the way they’d assume.
“Giuliana.” I keep my voice low, careful, trying to project concerned fiancée rather than crime lord dealing with a breaking prisoner. “You’re making a fucking scene.”
“Good.” She looks up at me finally, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy. “Maybe someone should see what this really is. Maybe someone should?—”
“Should what?” I interrupt, my voice dropping even lower. “Call the police? Report that you’re being forced into a marriage?” An ugly laugh escapes me. “Yousigned the papers, Giuliana.Youagreed to this. And even if you tried to claim coercion, who do you think they’d believe? A respected businessman with half the department in his pocket, or a hysterical woman making wild accusations?”
The cruelty of my words is intentional, designed to shut down this public breakdown before it becomes a real problem. Butwatching her face crumple further, seeing the last bit of hope drain from her eyes…
Fuck, it makes me feel like I’ve just kicked a wounded animal.
“You’re right,” she whispers, defeat written in every line of her body. “There’s no point. There’s never been any point.”
She turns and walks back into the boutique without another word, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with the uncomfortable weight of what I’ve just done settling over me.
The elderly couple is still watching. The man still has his phone out, possibly taking photos or video. I meet his eyes and let him see exactly what I am—the kind of man who makes problems disappear, who doesn’t give a fuck about public opinion or concerned citizens.
He pales and hurries away, pulling his wife with him.
When I return to the fitting room, Giuliana is sitting on the white velvet chair with her hands folded in her lap, her face carefully blank. Madame Rousseau is showing her something in a binder—veils, probably, or accessories.
“—and this cathedral-length veil with the French lace would be absolutely stunning with your dress,” the older woman is saying. “Very classic, very elegant.”
“That’s fine,” Giuliana says in a voice devoid of emotion.
“Wonderful!” Madame Rousseau reaches out toward Giuliana’s head. “And for your hair, we typically recommend?—”
Giuliana jerks her head away. “Whatever you think is best,” she says quickly.
Madame Rousseau exchanges a quick glance with her assistant, clearly picking up on the tension. “Of course. We’ll coordinate everything with your stylist closer to the date.” She closes the binder. “Now, let’s schedule those fitting appointments. We’ll need to see you three more times before the wedding?—”
I tune out the logistical details, watching Giuliana instead. She’s sitting perfectly still, her posture impeccable, but there’s something broken in the set of her shoulders. Something that wasn’t there before our conversation on the street.
I did that. I took whatever fight she had left and crushed it with a few well-chosen words about her powerlessness.
Victory should taste sweet. Instead, it tastes like ash.
The rest of the appointment passes in a blur of scheduling and measurements and enthusiastic commentary about how beautiful the wedding will be. Giuliana participates mechanically, agreeing to everything, offering no opinions or preferences. This is what I’ve always wanted. To break her. To win.
So why does it feel like I’m the one who lost something?
We’re finally released with promises to return for the first fitting in a week. I guide Giuliana to the car with a hand at the small of her back that she doesn’t acknowledge. She slides into the passenger seat and immediately turns to stare out the window.
