Marcello barely spared me a glance the entire evening, his indifference slicing through the room sharper than the cut of a Don’s finest blade. The tension in his posture was unmistakable—he was still irritated that I had prioritized work over attending Serafina’s grand birthday gala, an event he seemed to worship like a ritual of family honor.
The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. How could he harbor resentment toward me when he had spent months, subtly and deliberately, proving that I was not meant to belong at his side?
Naturally, Serafina stepped in with her practiced grace, acting the concerned mediator.
“Marcello, Isabelle has a professional obligation tonight. She shouldn’t be blamed for keeping to her duties,” Serafina said, her tone soft and measured, each word dripping with that meticulously rehearsed charm, the kind trained to disarm anyone in the room. She turned toward me with that flawless, almost theatrical smile. “It actually works in your favor that she’s the photographer for the event. Why don’t you two pose together for a picture, just like the rest of our distinguished guests?”
I tightened my grip on the camera.
It was a calculated performance. Every word, every gesture was designed to place me in a spotlight of humiliation, to remind everyone that I was, as usual, the outsider in this carefully choreographed display of wealth, power, and inherited privilege.
I glanced down at myself: a simple blouse, faded jeans, my attire a stark contrast to the silk gowns and tailored suits that defined the hall. And there she was—Serafina—in a designer dress that glittered under the chandeliers, commanding attention effortlessly. Marcello, in his tailored suit marking him as heir to the Moretti empire, looked perfectly at home beside her, as though he had never belonged to anyone else.
Before I could respond, Serafina had already snatched my camera from my hands, her laugh light but insistent.
“Come on, just one photo,” she said, brushing off my protest with the ease of a seasoned socialite.
I stepped beside Marcello, every movement stiff, as she lifted the camera. Whispers immediately began to ripple through the crowd, subtle murmurs that carried the sting of gossip:
“Marcello must be ashamed to stand with her.”
“Clearly, he prefers Serafina.”
“Did you see their Monaco trip pictures? He kissed her like she already owns him.”
“If I had someone as cunning and charming as Serafina, I’d choose her too.”
Soft laughter followed. Each word punctured my skin, a thousand invisible daggers. Marcello remained silent, his expression unreadable. Not a single defense, not a single acknowledgment of my presence.
I reclaimed my camera from Serafina, my face neutral, calm, the professionalism masking the fury inside.
“This is your celebration, Serafina,” I said evenly, raising the camera to my eye. “You deserve the spotlight. Just let me know if there’s anything else you want captured.”
Serafina tilted her head, as if trying to read beneath my mask, but before she could respond, the grand doors swung open.
Marcello’s parents had arrived.
The moment they stepped in, their presence filled the room with unspoken authority, commanding respect as they moved toward Serafina’s family with smooth, practiced gestures of greeting and alliance. The subtle political undertone was not lost on anyone—the joining of two powerful families in public display, framed by Serafina’s orchestrated charm.
Serafina’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. She turned to me, her smile sharp, controlled. “Now, take a picture of Marcello and me with our families, alright?”
Marcello didn’t hesitate. He slipped an arm around her waist with an ease that was infuriating, as though he had been waiting his entire life for this photo opportunity. Parents positioned themselves on either side, forming a tableau of perfection.
Through my camera’s lens, I saw everything with brutal clarity: Serafina leaning into him, Marcello accepting it without hesitation, the proud smiles of their parents—a family already envisioning the union as inevitable, as though my existence was irrelevant.
It struck me, hard and unyielding: this had always been the pattern. I had always been the outsider, merely tolerated, never truly claimed.
When the photo session ended, Serafina approached me again, phone in hand, smugness barely concealed beneath her veneer of politeness.
“I’ve already transferred a partial payment for your work,” she said lightly. “The rest will be sent once I review the final images.” Her tone held a subtle edge.
She added casually, almost as an afterthought, “Originally, I only booked you until the main celebration ended, but with Marcello’s parents here, there’s a secondary gathering. You’ll stay a bit longer, won’t you?”
Her eyes danced with amusement, a silent acknowledgment of the control she wielded. I simply nodded, retreating into the safety of my professionalism, camera in hand.
But as I followed Serafina to capture candid moments, fragments of a conversation reached me. My heart constricted with each word.
They were discussing Marcello and Serafina’s engagement—right there, openly, as if it were already finalized. My hands shook slightly around the camera, but I forced myself to keep shooting, to maintain the illusion of professionalism, even as everything within me fractured.
Cheers erupted around me. Glasses clinked, voices shouted encouragements. One of Marcello and Serafina’s friends from Monaco—the same group that had mocked me mercilessly—called out, urging them on:
“Kiss! Kiss!”
Serafina blushed, lowering her gaze, letting out a soft laugh. “Everyone, don’t tease us. Our parents are watching.”
Marcello only tightened his arm around her, leaning close. “Why not, my love?” he murmured.
The crowd’s excitement intensified, a roar of approval. Their parents laughed, pleased by the image of perfection. And then it happened. Serafina leaned in, and Marcello kissed her—long, deliberate, and intimate. The kind of kiss reserved for power, possession, and public display.
The guests cheered. Glasses raised.
I walked toward the pyramid of wine glasses on the table. Instead of lifting the top glass like the others, I grabbed one from the middle. The entire tower collapsed instantly, crystal shattering across the floor as gasps echoed in the hall.
I did not flinch.
Raising the glass calmly, I allowed a faint, knowing smile to curve my lips. “Congratulations,” I said coolly, voice steady. “Two shameless heirs—truly a perfect match.”
I drained the glass, set it down, and turned on my heel. Without a backward glance, I walked out of their charade of celebration, leaving chaos in my wake.
---
Back at the apartment, Marcello was waiting. The moment I stepped inside, he erupted.
“What the hell was that, Isabelle?” he roared, anger radiating from him like the weight of a family empire. “Do you have any idea how you humiliated me in front of everyone tonight?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Really? And you kissing your so-called childhood sweetheart in front of me—wasn’t that humiliating at all?”
Marcello ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “It was an act, Isabelle. Our families are intertwined. Our alliances are bound through business. We had to maintain appearances.”
I scoffed, arms crossed, tilting my head. “An act?”
I met his gaze, voice sharp and cold. “Then explain this, Marcello. Explain to me why you lied about Monaco.”
His jaw clenched. The room seemed to grow colder as silence fell between us, heavy and absolute.
