The first protective thing he'd said all day.
I didn't know if I should feel grateful or more terrified.
The receiving line finally, mercifully ended. My feet screamed in these heels. My face ached from smiling.
"Dinner is served," someone announced.
But first: the first dance.
Of course. Because this nightmare wasn't complete without forced intimacy for three hundred witnesses.
The orchestra began a slow waltz, romantic and utterly at odds with reality.
Cesare led me to the center of the dance floor. His hand settled on my waist—proprietary, confident. My hand in his—swallowed by his size, his strength.
This close, I could smell his cologne now—expensive, woody, distinctly masculine. Could feel the heat of his body through the layers of fabric between us, the controlled power in the way he led.
He was an excellent dancer. Of course he was. Men like Cesare excelled at everything.
We moved in perfect rhythm. To everyone watching, we were a fairytale.
I was acutely, painfully aware of the crowd. The cameras. The performance.
"Your father knew about the switch?" Cesare's voice was quiet—only I could hear over the music.
"Yes." My throat felt tight. "He said it didn't matter which daughter married you. As long as the alliance held."
His jaw clenched. I felt it more than saw it—we were too close for me to see much beyond his shoulder, his throat, the sharp line of his jaw.
"And Bianca? Did she plan this?"
"I don't know. I thought... I thought we were having sister time. I hadn’t really heard from her in months. She drugged the champagne. That's all I remember until this morning."
Silence. He was processing, calculating. I could practically hear the gears turning.
"Do you know anything about this arrangement? The terms? The reasons?"
"Not really… I knew she was engaged, and that it was business, not…” The words caught in my throat at I glanced up, his dark eyes making something in me go hot “...not love. But I didn’t know the wedding was today. Not until I woke up in her dress.”
More silence. His thumb traced a small circle on my waist—unconscious or deliberate? I couldn't tell.
"You work at a gallery?"
The question surprised me. We were discussing business arrangements and family betrayals, and he wanted to know about my job?
"Yes. Chelsea. Contemporary art mostly, but I specialize in Renaissance."
"Renaissance." Something in his tone—amusement? "How... cultured."
I bristled. Tired, terrified, trapped—but not stupid. "I have a Master's from Columbia. I'm not some idiot."
His hand tightened on my waist. Warning or appreciation?
"I can see that."
The music swelled. We turned. My dress swirled around us like a white storm.
I looked up at him. Really looked. Past the intimidation, the cold exterior, the man who'd threatened me at the altar.
