The planner blinked. Sunlight glinted across the gold pen in her trembling fingers while silence stretched between us.
“Well…” she started cautiously. “That depends entirely on the bride’s dreams.”
Dreams. The word sat strangely in my chest. Chiara probably still believed in stupid things like love. Fairy tales. Princes instead of monsters. Pity for her she ended up with me.
“Then make this simple for yourself,” I said finally. “You will give Chiara Ventura everything she wants.”
The planner’s eyes widened slightly.
“The dress she wants,” I continued. “The flowers. The music. The cake. The venue. If she points at something, she gets it.”
“Yes,SignoreMoretti.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” I said firmly.
“Of course.”
“And if she changes her mind twenty times?” I hissed. “We’ll accommodate her.”
“Of course,” she repeated. I leaned back in my chair slowly, studying the woman carefully enough to make her sweat.
“She is not to feel trapped during this process,” I said quietly. “Understand?”
The planner nodded. “Perfectly.”
Because if Chiara looked miserable walking down that aisle, every person in the city would assume I forced her into it. Which, technically, I had. But appearances mattered.
I dismissed the planner a few minutes later, and the penthouse fell silent again after she hurried out.
My gaze drifted toward the hallway automatically. Toward her. I should have left without seeing her again. Instead, I found myself unlocking her door anyway.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla soap and clean linen when I stepped inside. Chiara stood near the windows overlooking the city, sunlight wrapping around her pale hair like a halo. She wore one of the silk robes the staff left earlier, cream-colored fabric tied tightly around her waist.
Too beautiful.
She turned when she heard me enter, and the softness vanished from her face. Cold fury replaced it.
“Come to lock me up again?” she asked sharply.
I ignored the bite in her tone. “Unlock you, actually. I’m leaving for a few hours.”
“Congratulations on getting away from me,” she hissed. Her voice dripped acid. I watched her carefully. Loose blonde hair spilled over her shoulders exactly the way I told her to wear it. The sight hit me harder than it should have. Christ. She was finally obeying.
“You’ll have staff outside if you need anything,” I said.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she bit out. She looked exhausted. Shadows lingered beneath her eyes from crying. From fear. From me. I stepped closer anyway.
“You’ll meet with the wedding planner in a couple hours,” I said. “Whatever you want for the wedding, she’ll arrange it.”
Chiara laughed once. The sound was brittle enough to crack. “You think a pretty wedding fixes this?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why bother?”
Because guilt was becoming an unfamiliar weight beneath my ribs every time she looked at me like I’d destroyed her life. Because I had. But I’d rather put a bullet through my own throat than admit that aloud.
“You’re marrying me regardless,” I said instead. “You might as well enjoy the day.”
