I pull my blanket tighter around me and slide down until I’m curled at the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The clock on the nightstand ticks steadily, counting seconds that feel heavier than they should.
Seven days. Just seven more days, and everything changes again.
I should sleep, but my mind won’t stop replaying things that don’t matter anymore.
His voice. His touch. The way he always smelled faintly of smoke and cedar. The sound of his laugh when he forgot to be careful.
But what hurts the most is the way he refused to look at me when I confronted him. He didn’t even show up to see me leave with my brother.
Nicolo doesn’t deserve my tears or the space he occupies in my head. He’s a coward.
I close my eyes. Maybe in another life, we would’ve met differently. Maybe in another life, I wouldn’t be a Folonari and he wouldn’t be the kind of man who believes love is a weakness.
But this isn’t that life. And morning always comes, whether you want it to or not.
48
MARA
The world feels still before a storm.
That’s what today is: a storm I’ve already accepted will hit.
The morning passes in silence. No one dares to speak above a whisper. The air smells like flowers and incense and nerves. Valentina and Alessia hover nearby, voices hushed, eyes following me like they’re waiting for me to fall apart.
But I don’t. I can’t.
My hands are steady as they fasten the last pearl button down my spine. The veil slides into place, light as air, falling around me like a curtain between this life and the next.
“You’re beautiful,” Valentina says softly.
I nod, but the words don’t reach me.
Beautiful feels irrelevant. Beautiful isn’t what today is about. Today is about duty. Family. Deals made behind closed doors.
And endings that look too much like beginnings.
Eli knocks once before stepping in. He looks tired, though he tries to hide it. Perfect suit, tie just right, expression unreadable. But his eyes give him away. My brother’s eyes always do.
“Everyone’s ready,” he says, voice low.
I turn toward him. For a moment, I almost forget to breathe. He looks proud. Maybe too proud. The kind of pride that tries to cover guilt.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, stepping closer, like saying it out loud might undo everything he’s set in motion. “You can still change your mind.”
I manage a small smile. “You and I both know it’s too late for that.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and heavy. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He nods, glances at the veil, then presses a kiss to my forehead. The fabric rustles between us, but the gesture still lands.
“You’ll be okay,” he says, more to himself than to me.
I don’t answer. Because neither of us believes it.
Outside, the air is sharp with late morning chill. The cathedral looms ahead, stone and gold and impossible height. It’s beautiful in the way power often is. The kind of beauty that demands silence.
