My fiancé.
One of my father's soldiers. The man who had pulled me from a burning warehouse five years ago.
And he was speaking in low, urgent tones to a woman with dark hair and a swollen belly.
Sofia.
She was everything a made man was not supposed to have. A mistress. A liability.
I watched Luca kiss her forehead, a tenderness he rarely showed me anymore. He pressed a thick roll of cash into her hand, his eyes darting toward the dressing rooms where he thought I was buried in tulle.
I stepped out of the alcove. The chandeliers in the boutique blazed to life above me, a spotlight for the stage.
The boutique owner rushed toward me, pale as paper.
"Miss Vitello," she stammered. "There's been a problem with the embroidery."
"Move."
She scrambled aside.
I walked to the mannequin that held the gown Luca had ordered for me.
It was beautiful. A waterfall of lace and seed pearls. Expensive. Opulent.
And then I saw the hem. Delicate silver thread woven through the white fabric.
It didn't say Elena.
It said Sofia.
Luca turned. He saw me standing there, staring at his whore's name stitched into my wedding dress. His eyes went wide.
"Elena," he said, the lie smooth as oil. "It's a mistake. We can postpone. Order a new one."
He came toward me, arms open, blocking my view as Sofia scurried out the back door like a rat.
I let him hug me.
I breathed in the cheap perfume that clung to his jacket, the scent of her. My stomach lurched.
"Everything okay, Principessa?" he asked, kissing the top of my head.
"Everything is perfect, Luca," I lied, pulling back to look into his eyes.
Traitor's eyes.
I looked at the dress again. "Keep the name," I said softly, my gaze flicking over Luca's shoulder to the terrified shop owner. "Box it up. Seal it. I don't want anyone to see it before the wedding. Not even Luca."
Luca frowned. "What?"
I smiled. "Nothing. I was just telling her I want everything exactly as you planned."
Luca's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, a flicker of something-pleasure-crossing his face. Sofia.
He made his excuses and left.
I turned to the receptionist.
"I need to book the Gold Ballroom for Saturday."
"But Miss Vitello, you already have the Silver Ballroom reserved. For your wedding to Mr. Moretti."
"I know," I said, placing my black card on the marble counter. "The bride in the Silver Ballroom won't be me. The Gold Ballroom is for the man I'm actually marrying."
