"Because I have proof." Giovanni opened a desk drawer, pulled out a folder. "Emails between myself and Cesare's office discussing the substitution. Dated two weeks before the wedding. My assistant 'discovered' them this morning."
I stiffened. "We never exchanged such emails."
"I know. I had them fabricated yesterday. Backdated. Very convincing forgeries." He slid the folder across the desk. "The families won't question documentary evidence. And it gives me plausible deniability for the phone call—I was lying to Viktor toavoid giving him ammunition, but telling the truth now that the secret's out anyway."
The man had planned every angle. Disgusting and impressive in equal measure.
"So your story is: you lied on the phone to protect the alliance from Viktor's interference, but now that it's public knowledge, you're admitting the truth," Paola summarized.
"Exactly. I was protecting family interests by denying it to Viktor. Now I'm protecting family interests by confirming it to our allies. Perfectly consistent motivations, just different tactical responses."
Machiavellian. But it might actually work.
Just like that. A deal struck. A father abandoned. An empire transferred.
Cold. Clinical. Business.
We stood to leave. Giovanni didn't try to stop us, didn't say goodbye to his daughter. At the door, Paola paused. Looked back at her father one last time.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I hope retirement makes you happy. I hope it's everything you sacrificed your daughters for."
He didn't respond. Just returned to his paperwork, already moving on.
We walked out. Through the house. Past the servants who'd dressed Paola in the wedding gown. Into the bright morning sunlight that felt too cheerful for what had just happened.
At the car, Paola stopped and leaned against it, breathing hard.
"You okay?"
"I just sold my soul for territory. I just lied to protect a man who doesn't deserve protection. I just became everything I hate about this world."
"No. You protected yourself. And me. You made a strategic choice."
"A strategic choice." She laughed bitterly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I moved closer, hands on her shoulders. "You gave him what he wanted so we could survive. That's not selling out. That's surviving."
"It feels the same."
"I know. But you'll learn to live with it. Everyone in this world does."
Paola looked up at me, green eyes exhausted and haunted. "Is this what our marriage is? Strategic choices and survival and lies?"
"No." My hands framed her face. "It's also this. Us. The thing we're building between the lies."
"And what is that exactly?"
I didn't have words for it yet. What we had was too new, too complicated, too real.
Instead, I kissed her. Gentle, then deeper. Claiming and promising at once.
When we broke apart, both breathing harder, she said, "Take me home."
"Home?"
"The penthouse. Our bed. I need—" She stopped, struggling for words. "I need to feel something other than this."
I understood. After betrayal, after lies, after watching her father abandon her—she needed something real.
