His face was stunning in a brutal sort of way—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, that scar through his eyebrow that made him look dangerous. Gray eyes that missed nothing, analyzed everything.
He was looking at me too.
For a moment, the performance fell away. Just two people caught in something neither of us had chosen.
Something passed between us. Recognition? Curiosity? The acknowledgment that we were both trapped now, bound together by forces beyond our control?
His thumb traced another circle. Definitely deliberate this time.
My breath caught.
This was insane. I should be planning escape, not noticing how attractive my captor was. Not responding to his proximity, his scent, his heat.
But my body didn't care about logic. About the situation. About anything except the way his hand felt on my waist, the way he moved, the raw magnetism he radiated like heat from a furnace.
The song ended. Applause erupted.
Cesare stepped back. The moment shattered. His face went impassive again—all business, no warmth.
"Time for dinner. You'll sit beside me. Eat—you look pale. I don't need you fainting."
Was that concern? No. Probably practical. Can't have his new wife collapsing in public.
He led me to the head table—elevated, on display, everyone still watching.
Dinner was seven courses. I tasted none of it. Couldn't taste anything past the knot in my stomach.
Cesare made small talk with the guests at our table—business associates, family members. He was charming when he wanted to be. Warm, even.
Another mask. Another performance.
Piero stood for the best man speech.
He was witty, enthusiastic, told embarrassing stories about young Cesare getting caught stealing sfogliatelle from the kitchen, about pranks that ended with both brothers grounded for weeks.
The room laughed. Even Cesare smiled—genuine, unguarded for just a moment.
"My brother has always known what he wanted and gone after it with single-minded determination," Piero concluded. "And now he has found a woman who is his perfect match—strong, intelligent, beautiful.Saluteto the happy couple!"
Everyone drank. I forced champagne past my lips because it was expected. But the speech felt like a piece of clothing that felt wrong. I’d never thought of myself as strong, intelligent, or beautiful. That was always Bianca. I was the quiet sister; a hard worker, competent and creative, but happy to blend into my surroundings.
Cesare stood for his groom's speech. He placed his hand on my shoulder—possessive, claiming.
"I'm not a man of many words," he began.
The room chuckled—they knew this about him.
"But I'll say this: today I married the most unexpected woman. She's already proven to be... full of surprises." He looked down at me, gray eyes unreadable. "To my wife. May we have many more surprises ahead."
Thatfelt more accurate; unexpected. Full of surprises. But was it a threat or acknowledgment? Both?
Everyone applauded. Cesare sat, his hand slipping from my shoulder to my wrist, his fingers wrapping it like a manacle.
The reception dragged on. More courses, more speeches, more toasts. I was introduced to countless people whose names evaporated from my memory the moment they walked away.
Everyone called me "Bianca." Every single time, it was a knife twist of wrongness.
I watched Cesare navigate his world—men approached him with deference that bordered on fear, quiet conversations stopped when I got too close, everyone orbited him like he was the sun and they were just planets hoping for warmth.
