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I know this path won’t be easy. It will challenge every part of me, strip me bare. But somewhere deep inside, I sense it won’t be all bad. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something worth holding onto in the darkness he brings.

Time slips away while they do my makeup and hair, my eyes closed the whole time.

“All done,” the hairdresser whispers at last, and I stand.

“Here, sweetheart,” the young one says as she brings over the dress. “Mind if we help you change?”

I take the dress and go behind the curtain, slowly sliding it up. It’s too tight, I realize as I put it on. I can’t wear a bra, and with trembling hands, I slide it off.

Unable to zip it up wholly from the back, I emerge from behind the curtains to the sounds of gasps. Gasps I always imagined would come from my sister or friends—never strangers. But today, it’s only three strangers whose names I don’t yet know.

“Here,” one of them says as she comes forward. “Let me zip you up.”

I don’t fight it. Fighting would mean running, and running would mean Chiara pays the price. So I stand still as they prepare me for a man who thinks he knows who I am.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I fooled him once, wearing her skin and name. And now I’m doing it again—with far more to lose. A one-night stand was okay to live out a lie with—a marriage is a whole different ballgame.

When they finish putting on the final touches, one of the women leads me to a mirror. I glance at myself in the mirror and barely recognize what’s staring back. My hair’s been twisted up, pinned so tight I can feel the tug with every blink, but there are gentle strands framing my face. Tiny pearls are tucked into the coils, making me look like something out of a book of enchantments. The make-up makes my skin glow, my eyes look a little wider, a little more…compliant.

I look ethereal, almost untouchable.

I’ve never looked more beautiful, yet never felt more terrified. I slide my gaze down my body and feel my neck heat at the sight staring back. The satin dress I have on is soft as air, but clings in ways that make me feel naked. It’s got tiny, thin straps that leave my arms bare and scoops down low, revealing themounds of my breasts. It cinches at my waist so tight, I can see every dip, every curve and then, I see the slit. It’s high, almost to the top of my thigh. I turn and look over my shoulder, noticing the way it tightens above my hip and flares out into a small, comfortable trail.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever worn—and knowing that over a hundred eyes will be on me today, including his, sends a shiver of fear straight through my core.

A hand brushes my shoulder. “It’s time to meet your husband.”

8

MARCO

Icheck my watch. Three hours until I become a married man. That’s three hours until I bind myself to a woman I barely knowfor life.

Chiara. The name sounds strange now—made even stranger by the fact that this marriage is nothing more than an arrangement. She owes a debt I inherited—and I get to escape marrying a woman I despise.

It’s a simple proposition. Clean.

Until now. I stare at the closed door of my office, waiting for Nicolo to deliver the background check I requested. It’s a simple precaution I’m taking so that there aren’t any surprises later. My father can’t attend today due to some overseas business, but I know he’ll have questions.

I need answers. Well, I need a last name, at least.

The bottle of Macallan 25 sits open on my desk. I don’t drink before noon, but today warrants an exception. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down. Not enough to dull my senses, just enough to take the edge off the irritation I feel waiting for Nicolo. He’s late. Nicolo is never late, and I have a bride waiting.

The knock comes within minutes.

“Come in,” I say, leaning forward on my desk in the office.

Nicolo steps inside. The look on his face tells me everything I need to know. His usual composed expression is gone, replaced by something tense. Worried. He’s found something.

“You’re late,” I say.

“I apologize, boss.” He places a thick manila folder on my desk. He remains standing instead of taking his usual seat. Another bad sign.

I gesture to the chair across from me. “Sit.”

“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

I raise an eyebrow. In fifteen years of service, Nicolo has never refused a direct instruction. Whatever he’s found has him rattled. I lean forward, suddenly more interested.