That night, Venice came down with a raging fever that quickly worsened into pneumonia.
For two full days, she drifted in and out of delirium, her body burning and trembling, her mind trapped in a fog.
When she finally opened her eyes again, she found herself not in a hospital—but in a dark, damp room on the first floor of Kevin's villa.
The air was heavy with the scent of disinfectant and mold.
Kevin sat beside her bed, adjusting her IV drip. His expression eased when he saw her awake.
"Venice," he said softly, "your fever has finally gone down. The pneumonia is under control. The doctor came earlier—just rest for a couple more days, and you'll be fine."
Venice tried to speak, but not a sound came out. Once, her muteness had been an act. Now, it was real.
Kevin touched her forehead gently, his voice calm and almost tender. "The fever and infection inflamed your throat badly. But since you couldn't talk before anyway, it doesn't change much, does it?"
For the next two days, he never mentioned what had happened at the villa.
He stayed by her side constantly—personally cooking porridge, cooling it with his breath before feeding her; waking up at every rustle she made at night; even holding her in his arms while the doctor gave her injections, whispering soft reassurances.
But on the third day, he changed.
He ordered his men to keep watch over her day and night, forbidding her from stepping outside the villa—not even once.
"Just in case you decide to cause trouble again," he said coldly before leaving.
After that, he threw himself entirely into the preparations for his engagement banquet.
Venice merely sat by the window, her face devoid of emotion, watching the days crawl by.
Then, one quiet evening, her phone buzzed—its ringtone shattering the silence.
"Venice," came her father's familiar voice, warm and steady. "I've landed safely in Los Angeles."
"I've already spoken with Adam. He'll be waiting for you tomorrow at the Pearl Tower."
"Oh, and I brought your wedding gown—the one you chose for yourself back then."
Venice's fingers tightened around the phone, trembling slightly. "That's good, Dad. But... I've run into a bit of trouble here."
Her father had been away from Los Angeles for years; many of his old connections had gone cold. It took time and effort to pull enough strings.
By six o'clock the next morning—the day of the wedding—her father, Ronald, finally broke into the villa with a group of men, pushing past layers of guards to take his daughter away.
All the way to the venue, makeup artists and stylists worked on her frantically, racing against the clock.
...
Pearl Tower truly lived up to its reputation as Los Angeles's most exclusive Michelin-starred restaurant.
The banquet hall glittered in gold and crystal. Roses, airlifted from overseas, filled the air with fragrance, and chandeliers cast diamond-like light across the marble floors.
When Venice appeared, dressed in a backless wedding gown—whispers immediately spread through the crowd.
"Wait, isn't this Kevin's engagement banquet? Why is she here?"
"Is she here to crash it? Please—she's just the owner of some failed café. How could she possibly match the McAuliffe family?"
"Still, she's brave. But the Cervantes family won't let her walk out of here unharmed."
Their murmurs reached her ears, but Venice only curled her lips in a faint smile.
Let them talk.
Soon, every one of them would choke on their words.
The elevator chimed with a crisp ding.
Stefanie stepped out, holding Kevin's arm.
At that instant, the room fell into stunned silence—because Stefanie was wearing the exact same wedding gown as Venice.
Kevin's expression turned dark as thunder. He strode toward her, his voice low and sharp enough to cut. "So this is where you've been hiding. You caused chaos at the villa, and now you show up here—wearing the same dress as Stefanie?"
His words were ice. "Venice, I'll say this one last time—take off that gown and get out."
Venice met his gaze, her lips trembling slightly before she spoke—for the first time in eight years.
"Kevin, I'm not leaving."
He froze, startled. "You... you can talk?"
But then, his sneer returned. "So what? Even if you're not mute, I still wouldn't marry you."
Venice drew a slow breath, her voice steady.
"Don't worry," she said. "I didn't come here to marry you."
And just then, the doors of the banquet hall burst open with a bang.
Ronald strode in first, followed by a tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit. His features were chiseled and sharp, his presence commanding, every step exuding confidence and authority.
"You recognize him, don't you?" Venice said coolly. "Your uncle, Adam."
She crossed the room, her heels clicking softly against the marble, and took Adam's arm with quiet familiarity.
"But he has another identity now," she said, her smile calm and devastating. "Allow me to introduce him properly—Adam McAuliffe, my fiancé."
She lifted her chin slightly, her voice ringing clear. "Today is our wedding day."
