The curtain next to me opened, and Serena stepped out wearing an off-the-shoulder gown with a low-cut back. Her dress sparkled twice as much as mine. The associate went still, and even one of the soldiers near the entrance shifted his gaze before catching himself.
And Dominic—he was speechless, unable to tear his eyes away from her, his gaze growing almost misty. Serena, sensing his reaction, smirked and put on an act. "What's the matter? Did I surprise you? Tell me, who looks better—me or your promised bride?"
Only then did Dominic's eyes drift back to me, as if remembering my existence, and he blurted without hesitation, "You look better."
Serena playfully slapped his arm, scolding him. "Idiot! You're supposed to compliment your bride at a time like this. You really have no charm, do you?"
Realizing his blunder, Dominic looked at me, a bit embarrassed. I just lowered my gaze, focused on sending a picture of the dress to my parents. My father would be in the old armchair by the window of the coastal house, my mother smoothing the bedsheet flat beside him while they waited for news of the fitting—news that was supposed to be joyful. Once I got their response, I didn't bother saying anything more and turned back to the fitting room to change.
When I came out, Serena was pulling Dominic into selfies, giggling as he posed in an absurd tuxedo with a dramatic tailcoat. He'd always been averse to dressing up. Even during our trips through the shops along the Bellandi waterfront, he'd never tried on anything, not even once. But now, here he was, fully dressed up, laughing like a carefree teenager while a daughter of a silent partner leaned into his shoulder as though the betrothal ring on my finger meant nothing at all.
Four years together, and he wouldn't even try on clothes for me. So that was it—his so-called rules applied only to me. With that realization, I grabbed my purse, ready to leave. Just as I reached the door, Dominic called after me.
"Bianca, I don't have all day for dress-fitting. We can't go to check on another shop."
"I'm fine with the last one," I replied quickly.
He frowned. "I wasn't saying you can't try another one. Go look around. Take your time."
I shook my head. "No need. I'm good with this one."
We wouldn't be having a real wedding, anyway. Why waste any more time?
He tossed his tie at me the way a man discards something that has already served its purpose, the silk landing across my forearm with a whisper of expensive fabric against skin. His eyes held nothing. Not anger, not frustration—just the flat, practiced coldness of someone who had learned early that indifference was its own kind of weapon.
"You're still mad because I didn't meet your parents?" The words came out clipped, rehearsed, as though he had been turning them over in his mouth the entire drive back from the atelier. "You've been giving me attitude ever since. Seriously, is it necessary?"
The penthouse study where he stood smelled of cedar humidor wood and the faint residue of whatever bourbon he and his father's capos had been drinking before we left. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's skyline glittered—Bellandi territory from the waterfront to the financial district, every building either owned, leveraged, or owed. Dominic moved through that view the way he moved through every room: as if the walls existed only because he permitted them to stand.
"You should be grateful I'm here today at all." He unfastened one cufflink, then the other, setting them on the obsidian console with two deliberate clicks. "What more do you want?"
