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I could let her face the consequences of her actions, just this once. Let her clean up her own mess instead of jumping in to save her like I always have—since we were kids with scraped knees and empty bellies. But even as the thought takes shape, I know I won’t. She’s my twin, my mirror, my other half. Her mistakes aren’t just hers—they’re a part of me too, like some cruel inheritance we both carry.

I straighten my shoulders and step out from behind the flowers. The choice isn’t really a choice at all. It’s what I’ve always done: step in, fix things, survive.

A gilded sign catches my eye—an ornate wedding placard I’d somehow missed on my way in. My heart stutters as I read the names elegantly scrolled across it:

Marco Bianchi and Chiara Rossi.

Marco Bianchi. That’s his name. The same man whose green eyes watched me with hunger as he moved above me, the hands that held me with surprising gentleness afterward.

The man who spilled blood to keep me breathing.

And now… he’s expecting to marry me.

Or at least, the woman he thinks I am.

What kind of man offers marriage to help someone in debt?

I don’t get to contemplate such a question for long. Two men materialize at my sides, their bulk making me look even smaller than my five-foot-four frame already does.

“Ma’am,” one says, not bothering to hide his scrutiny. “Time to get you ready.”

“Ready?” I echo, the word catching in my throat.

“The guests have arrived,” the other grumbles.

There’s been a mistake—but the words never make it past my lips. Because if I tell them the truth—if I tell them I wasn’t her?—

Would they let me leave?

Would they let Chiara live?

Not when I catch the subtle bulge beneath his jacket. A gun. Of course there’s a gun.

And with it, the sharp reminder of what defiance could cost Chiara.

They escort me down a corridor, their hands hovering near my elbows without quite touching me. But I know if I try to run, they won’t think twice before breaking my bones.

We stop at a door, which opens to reveal what can only be described as a bridal suite. Three women wait inside, surrounded by cosmetics, hair tools, and—my stomach drops—a wedding dress suspended from a hanger like a ghost. They all look up as we enter, their faces breaking into wide smiles as they stand and rush towards me, making me the center of attention.

“Please,” I say to the retreating men, leaving me alone with these strangers. “I’m not?—”

But they slam the door shut behind them.

I turn back to the waiting women, my heart pounding in my chest.

“My, my,” one of them, a young thing, fawns over me as she grabs my hand and leads me to a waiting chair. “Aren’t you gorgeous?”

“Don’t be nervous, darling,” another says as she takes my hand and begins testing color swatches. “Though, of course, every bride is.”

I sit there, mute, and watch my world close in around me. My throat clenches up in fear. My future, one where I imagined a wedding to a man I loved, dissipates right in front of my eyes.

In this moment, the horror of what awaits becomes glaringly obvious. I’m to be this Marco Bianchi’s wife, and he, in every sense of the word, owns me now because of what my sister did. He can make me do anything, be anything, and I’ll simply have to play along.

“Shh,” the make-up artist says. “I’m trying to get your eyeliner right.”

I close my eyes and let myself drift back to a rare place of comfort—a sliver of proof that maybe it won’t be all pain and darkness. I remember that night he lay in my bed. He was relentless, commanding—he took what he wanted without hesitation. But he also gave.

Never before have I felt pleasure so raw, so consuming. Never before have I felt beautiful in a way that cut through every doubt and fear. There’s something about him—something primal and unsettling—that tells me he doesn’t take pleasure in stealing what isn’t willingly given. No. His power comes from breaking you down until you’re begging, desperate for even a taste of what he offers.