The doctor’s voice was clinical, detached. “Your ovaries are riddled with cysts. Your hormone levels are imbalanced. Conception, when you do have sex, may be difficult, if not impossible. And even if pregnancy occurs, carrying to term will be unlikely.”
My parents exchanged looks, calculating. They moved straight past the fact that I had been telling them the truth all along and on to the realization that I was no longer their perfect daughter. I was a liability.
And today, that truth hangs over me like a guillotine.
“By the time Sandro realizes you can’t provide him with an heir,” my mother says, her tone hushed but businesslike, “our alliance will be secure. The Chiaroscuros will be bound to us, and your brothers will have proven worthy of the elevated status. So, when he asks for a divorce, we’ll be more than capable of taking you back. Your brothers will support you until we can find you a widower with children or an older man who’s lonely and doesn’t care about securing an heir.”
Her words gut me. Because beneath the strategy, beneath the cold practicality, is the unspoken truth. I am damaged goods. Broken. Unlovable.
I force myself to smile at her reflection, even as tears sting my eyes. “Of course, Mother.”
She seems satisfied with my composure and finally leaves me to finish dressing.
When I’m alone, I stare at myself in the mirror, at the gown of ivory silk that drapes over my body like armor. I look like a bride. I look like someone whole, someone wanted. If I smile just right, maybe no one will see the cracks beneath.
It feels like a matter of seconds before my father comes to collect me. Time bends strangely under pressure, stretching and snapping all at once. One moment I’m alone, the next my father is at my side, his arm as stiff as steel where it links with mine.
The Novikov ballroom has been transformed into a cathedral of light. Candles flicker along the aisle, casting a golden glow across marble floors. Chandeliers glitter overhead, and for a moment, I almost forget this place was built for power and defense rather than love.
Guests murmur softly as I pass, but all of it blurs. My gaze locks on one thing. Him.
Sandro waits at the end of the aisle, towering and immovable, as if the earth itself anchors him there. I haven’t seen him since the night we met, and my stomach flip-flops at the change in his appearance. Rather than covered in blood, sweat, and bruises, he wears a crisp, perfectly tailored tuxedo, black and severe. His dark hair has been tamed with product and combed back from his forehead in a stylish, intentional look that masks the chaos within. Today, he looks more than just presentable—a complete one eighty from the last time I saw him.
He lookshandsome.
But no quality fabric or hair product could soften the jagged edges that mark him as distinctly different from his twin. Even dressed to the nines, Sandro looks lethal. Tattoos snake up his throat, curling over sun-bronzed skin as they peek out from his white dress shirt. His square, clean-shaven jaw is set, his expression a scowl so fierce it should frighten me.
But it doesn’t.
Because beneath the darkness, his hazel eyes are locked on mine. And the way he looks at me—it’s unlike anyone has ever looked at me before. It’s not calculation, not strategy. It’s something raw, something that makes my stomach twist and my knees weaken.
He doesn’t just see me. He seesintome.
And a shiver runs down my spine as I get the feeling that, if he wanted to, Sandro could pluck the deepest, darkest secrets from my mind.
My father’s hand is clammy against mine as he leads me forward, a reminder of the stakes and just how dangerous it would be if Sandro could, in fact, read my thoughts. When we reach the altar, my father passes me over, his grip tightening just slightly before he releases me, as though reminding me of my duty even now.
Then Sandro’s hand closes around mine.
And everything shifts.
His palm is broad, calloused, warm, and steady. The strength in his grip radiates through me, rooting me in place. Where my father’s grip felt like possession, Sandro’s hand feels like ananchor, like safety—even though I know better than to believe in such things.
His touch brings me back to our single meeting before today, and my skin tingles with the memory of his chaste farewell, his lips brushing across my knuckles with a tenderness he looks like he couldn’t possibly possess. I’ve dreamed about that seemingly innocuous kiss more than I would like to admit.
And now, with Sandro’s eyes burning into my very soul, I feel my cheeks lighting on fire. Because I’m certain he can read it on my face as plain as day—the liquid warmth that floods my body the moment our hands meet.
I glance up at him from beneath my lashes, bracing for his disdain or indifference. Instead, his gaze is steady, unwavering, locked on me like I’m the only one in the room.
My heart stutters.
Maybe Anika was right. Maybe Sandro is a softie—hidden beneath steel and ink and scars.
The vows blur. I barely hear the priest’s words. All I know is the weight of Sandro’s hand, the heat of his body beside mine, the steady drum of my heart threatening to burst free from my chest.
When he slips the ring onto my finger, his thumb grazes my skin, slow and deliberate. My breath hitches. I’m terrified. I’m captivated. And I can’t deny it. I am drawn to Sandro—despite the danger, despite the secrets, despite the knowledge that one day, when he learns the truth about me, everything will shatter.
5
