I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion weighing me down.
“Just leave them there,” I said, my voice listless.
My phone chimed, signaling a new post. Curious, I tapped into it.
Bianca had put up a video.
In it, she stood on the deck of a yacht, fishing in a bikini. A man’s arms wrapped snugly around her slim waist from behind. Even from the shaky footage, I recognized the watch on his wrist. It was the birthday gift I had given Lorenzo last year.
The location tag read Thailand. A dull ache spread through my chest, sharp and relentless. So, the reason Lorenzo had postponed our blood-bound union wasn’t business at all. He’d called it an urgent matter, an absence no one in the Family questioned. The truth was simpler. He had crossed an ocean to fish beside the woman he truly cherished.
I went through the motions of washing up, then arranged a car back to the estate to pack my things. Just as I was zipping up my suitcase, the atelier Lorenzo had commissioned arrived to deliver a sample of the wedding gown.
“Delivery for Miss Bianca Sartori. A custom piece from Mr. Falcone. Congratulations on your union, Miss Sartori,” the courier announced brightly.
I froze for a moment, staring at the garment bag in his hands. It bore the unmistakable mark of MN’s private bridal line. The gown Lorenzo had chosen for me at MN’s house had been a limited runway piece, nothing more. This was bespoke, cut and stitched by hand for one body and one body only. The difference wasn’t only in the craftsmanship. It was in intention.
I forced a bitter smile. “Thank you, but I’m not Bianca.”
The courier blinked at me, confused. Then his face changed as the truth landed. He stammered out a string of apologies and hurried off, plainly mortified.
As I watched the crew go, movement caught the corner of my eye. Lorenzo had returned. And Bianca was with him.
“Hi, Cousin, how are you? It’s so good to see you!” she sang, the warmth running over like spilled wine. Yet I heard the lie beneath it as she went on, “I was coming to visit, and I happened to run into your fiancé down in the parking court. So we walked up together. I hope you don’t mind.”
The weight she set on don’t mind was a blade, slid in clean.
Lorenzo frowned faintly, irritated by the way she named him my fiancé.
I forced a smile. “Of course not.”
Why would I mind? I’d be gone soon enough. Lorenzo didn’t love me. Whether I cared or not changed nothing in this house.
I had no wish to sit and trade pleasantries with them, so I went upstairs to my room. I left the door open as I began to pack.
Lorenzo appeared a moment later, leaning against the doorframe. He came toward me, hands in his pockets, then drew out a ruby necklace, the stone the size of a pigeon’s egg.
“It’s, um, a peace offering. Will you forgive me?”
He thought I was wounded because he’d delayed the betrothal feast. That wasn’t it at all. I was tired of his charade. Tired of watching him force himself to love me.
When I said nothing, Lorenzo unfastened the clasp and slipped the chain around my neck.
“The Family’s hosting a celebration tonight. Come with me,” he said.
“I can’t,” I replied, pushing my suitcase past him. “I have plans.”
“You wouldn’t want your fiancé walking into a room full of every boss in the territory with another woman on his arm, would you? Besides, there’ll be a lot of important people there tonight. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I hesitated, my hand going still on the handle of the suitcase.
This crossing to neutral ground, far from the Families’ reach. It might be a one-way passage. I might never set foot here again. Perhaps I should use the night to say goodbye to a few of the people I’d once worked beside, the ones who’d sat across the same tables and trusted my hands with their cleaned cash.
I gave a small nod.
Lorenzo’s mood lifted at once. He sent for a stylist and a girl to do my face, both up the stairs within the hour.
An hour later I came down in a floor-length couture gown with a long, sweeping train, the ruby resting against my collarbone.
When Lorenzo saw me, something kindled in his eyes as he opened the car door. “You look beautiful.”
Just as I stepped toward Lorenzo’s car, Bianca pushed past me, lifting her hem with a flourish.
“This gown is far too big for that little car. Can we switch, Addie?” Bianca asked, her voice dripping sweetness. The ruby at her own throat, larger and more brilliant than mine, caught the light and threw it back in glittering shards that felt almost like mockery.
I glanced down at my necklace, its slender chain and modest stone suddenly looking like something pulled from a market stall.
“My dress is large too,” I answered, cold, refusing to be drawn into her game.
Bianca pouted, leaning in close to Lorenzo. “But I get carsick. I need the bigger car,” she whined, her voice gone soft and pitiful, as if she were some fragile thing in need of a man’s protection.
