Julianna's POV
It all began the way most disasters do - over dinner, with everyone smiling and conversing.
There's no such thing as a clean break. The past doesn't fade - it clots. And just when you think you've healed, it bleeds all over again, ruining everything you fought so hard to build.
I'd refused to believe that, for years, because of him. Until a week ago.
The long dining table at the Marchetti mansion had been set for a flawless dinner. I sat to Alistair's right, tense in my silk blouse, smiling until my cheeks ached while his parents discussed wedding venues, guest lists, and the merger of our families' fortunes. smiling until my cheeks ached while his parents discussed wedding venues, guest lists, and the merger of our families' assets.
Across from me sat my parents. My mother shot me the occasional warning glare - a signal to keep my shoulders back, my composure perfect. In our world, a daughter's only value was the alliance she could secure, and my mother was determined not to let anything jeopardize this one. My father simply nodded along to everything Don Marchetti said, content to trade his eldest daughter for a permanent seat at the Famiglia's table.
Parents, indeed.
Alistair barely looked at me, resting a cold, possessive hand on my knee whenever he thought he needed o remind the room - and me, exactly who I belonged to.
To everyone else, I was the blushing bride-to-be. No one could see the countdown ticking in my head. Nobody cared. Six months and three weeks was all that was left of my life as it was.
"The guest list for the gala is finalized," Don Marchetti announced. "Strictly our inner circle. No liabilities."
"Perfect," Alistair said, his voice smooth and empty of warmth. "We don't need distractions."
"Distractions?" Gaia Marchetti laughed. "Son, the only thing people will be looking at is Julianna's ring. Though, dear, we must finalize your dress designer by tomorrow. A Marchetti bride must look untouchable."
My mother leaned in, sweet and submissive. "Oh, absolutely, Gaia. I've made sure she understands the modesty expected of a traditional bride."
A traditional bride who didn't need to be a virgin. My stomach tightened.
You didn't go to school all the way in Las Vegas only to remain a useless virgin.
And here I was here, still a virgin, still useless by his measure.
Under the table, Alistair's hand tightened - a pressure that promised bruises by morning.
"Julianna knows how to present herself, Mother. White, to signify the innocence our family expects."
As if there was anything innocent about the name 'Marchetti'.
"Good," Don Marchetti murmured, cutting into his steak. "Because once the vows are exchanged, the press will be the least of your concerns. I won't have any weak links, Alistair."
"There won't be any, father." Alistair turned his eyes, devoid of any emotions to me. "Isn't that right, Julianna? My future wife knows exactly what happens to people who disappoint me."
"Completely," I said, steady even as my chest tightened.
My father, Giovanni, sat further down the table, deep in conversation with Don Marchetti about shipping routes. He laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, the same way he always did around men with more power than him. I used to think it was charm. Now I knew it was hunger - the same hunger that had decided, three years ago, that his eldest daughter was worth more as an object to be traded than as a person.
My sister, Liliana, caught my eye from beside our mother and gave me a small, encouraging smile, the kind she'd been giving me all year, as if smiling hard enough could make this less unbearable. She was the only person at that table who looked at me like I was still a person and not a line item in a merger.
"You're quiet tonight, Julianna," my mother murmured, leaning close enough that only I could hear her over the clatter of the room. Amelia Russo, my mother, had perfected the art of saying everything and nothing at once. "Smile more. A nervous bride will make the Marchettis curious, and curious people start asking questions."
"I'm fine, Mama."
"You will be," she said, patting my hand once, briskly. "I told you when you were sixteen - love is for girls who can afford it. We never could. Just focus on now, on Alistair."
She'd said some version of that sentence to me a dozen times over the years, always in that same brisk, loving-cruel tone, as if repetition could make it stop hurting to hear.
It never did.
She had known my heart was somewhere else since I returned from Vegas, years ago and never stopped reminding me of my duties.
And then, just when I needed a distraction most, the double doors swung open and the clinking of silverware and conversations died instantly.
That's when he stepped into the room.
My fork slipped from my fingers. No one seemed to hear it. Every eye had already found him.
Dante Marchetti.
Three years since Las Vegas. Since he'd vanished without a word. And now, here he was here, tall in his dark coat, hair in that careless tousle, eyes that same cold gray. Nothing about him had changed.
I stared at him with my lips parted in shock. What in the world was my ex doing here?
"Am I late?"
"You weren't invited, Dante." Alistair's posture went rigid beside me.
"An oversight, I'm sure." Dante walked forward, slow and deliberate. "Did Father not tell you? I'm back."
What did he mean father? Back to what?
So many questions were racing in my head while I still stared at the man who regarded me like I was a stranger. As if Nevada had never happened. As if the tattoo on his hand, the one he'd inked for me, meant nothing now.
"Besides - how could I miss a dinner celebrating my little brother's beautiful fiancée?"
"You weren't fucking invited."
"I'm here now." Dante took the empty chair across from me, sinking into it with casual, dominant ease. "Deal with it."
That was when it landed fully - Dante Marchetti, the exiled son, my ex was sitting across from me.
Dante was my future brother -in-law. And he knew more than enough to ruin me.
