He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. He just pulls me closer and holds me, and I can feel the frustration radiating off him in waves.
We lie there in silence, and I think about all the ways this is going to end badly. But I still can't walk away.
Savannah comes into the bathroom the next night, as I’m touching up my makeup at one of the many charity galas we have to attend. She looks at me in the mirror as I swipe a nude lipstick over my mouth, and I can see the concern in her eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asks quietly. "You seem... different lately."
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
"Giulia." She puts a hand on my arm gently. "You can talk to me. If something's wrong?—"
"Nothing's wrong." I force a smile, and I can see my reflection in the mirror—the perfect makeup, the elegant dress, the carefully arranged hair. I look exactly like I'm supposed to look. "I'm just adjusting to everything. The engagement, the wedding planning… it's a lot."
"Are you happy?" The question is so direct that it catches me off guard.
Am I happy?The question is almost laughable. I'm dying inside, fracturing into pieces that I don't know how to put back together, while I’m living two lives that are both lies in their own way. I’m in love with a man who both knows me and doesn’t, while being forced to marry a man I feel nothing for.
But I can't say any of that. "I'm happy," I say with a smile, and the lie comes so easily it scares me. "Alessandro is a good man. I'm lucky."
Savannah doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here."
I force my smile a little wider. "Thank you."
We go back to the dinner, and I slip back into my role of the dutiful daughter. The happy bride-to-be, the woman who has everything she could possibly want. The performance is flawless.
And I'm so tired of performing.
10
LUCA
For the first time in my life, I’m unsure of myself, of who I am, and what I want. It hits me, standing in the entryway of the Ciresa mansion as I see Giulia come down the stairs, wearing a cream-colored silk gown that makes her skin glow, and her hair look like ink. Alessandro is waiting for her at the bottom, his hand extended like he has the right to touch her. Like she belongs to him.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to consciously force myself to relax them and to breathe. To remember that I'm?—
Who? What I feel like right now is a man who's slowly losing his fucking mind because he can't stop thinking about two women who are both completely out of reach.
Giulia takes Alessandro's hand, and I see the tiny flinch, so small that if I weren't watching her the way I always watch her, I would have missed it. But I see it. I see the way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes and the way she holds herself just slightly away from him, like she's trying to maintain distance even while appearing close.
I want to commit murder.
The thought is so clear, so visceral, that it shocks me. I want to cross the hallway, grab Alessandro by his perfectly tailored collar, and break every bone in the hand that's touching her. I want to make him understand that he doesn't get to touch her, doesn't get to look at her like she's already his, doesn't get to exist in the same fucking space as her.
But I can't do any of that. I have no right to feel protective of her or care who she marries. I have no right to want her the way I do.
She's the don's daughter. She's being married off to secure an alliance. And I'm just the soldier who rose higher than he probably should have because he made friends with the don’s son. That's all I am, and it’s all I can ever be.
But the feelings won't go away. They're getting worse, actually. More intense, more consuming, like a fire that's been smoldering for years and is finally catching and spreading, burning through everything I thought I knew about myself.
I watch them walk toward the front door. Alessandro's hand on the small of her back now, proprietary and possessive, and the rage is so intense I can taste it. Metallic and bitter, like blood in my mouth.
"Luca."
Romeo's voice cuts through the haze, and I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Walk with me," he says, and it's not a request.
We go outside, past the guards stationed at the perimeter, into the garden where the jasmine is blooming, and the air smells sweet and cloying. Romeo doesn't speak until we're far enough away that no one can overhear.
