His voice remained smooth, almost detached.
“That day was supposed to be Violet’s wedding. We dressed her in our finest. Families flew in from Madrid, Barcelona, Seville. Everyone came to watch our daughter marry the love of her life.”
He gestured vaguely, as if recalling something distant. Something ruined.
“But what did you do?” His gaze returned to me, sharp now.
“You showed up—knowing exactly the history you shared with him. Knowing he would choose you.”
My stomach twisted.
“You stole her groom. On her wedding day. In front of all of them—while the entire Spanish society in Italy watched us be humiliated.”
“That is not—” I started, my voice weak but defiant.
He didn’t let me finish.
“Did you really think we would let that go?”
His eyes hardened, something colder settling beneath the surface.
“That we would forgive a disgrace like that?”
I clenched my jaw, fighting against the rising panic, the urge to scream, to defend myself, to tell them the truth—
That I hadn’t stolen anyone.
That I had run into that church seeking shelter.
Seeking safety.
That I hadn’t even known there was a wedding happening until I walked in and saw him—
Vincenzo.
In a suit.
Eyes wide.
Fury burning beneath the surface.
I hadn’t stolen anyone.
I hadn’t planned anything.
I had been running.
Running from Ruslan’s men.
But none of that mattered.
Because they didn’t want the truth.
They wanted a reason.
And I was it.
Words formed on my lips.
