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When he finally releases me, I’m breathless and dizzy. The crowd applauds, oblivious to the battle that just occurred, the silent warning delivered with lips and teeth and tongue. Marco’s eyes hold mine, and there’s satisfaction in them now. He’s confirmed something—whether it’s my identity or my weakness to him, I can’t tell.

“Mrs. Bianchi,” he murmurs, for my ears only, conspicuously avoiding my sister’s name.

The reception is held in a ballroom that could fit my entire apartmentbuilding, including parking. Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings, there’s a champagne tower, waiters walk around with hors d’oeuvres I’ve never seen. Flowers scent the air—roses and lilies and orchids in arrangements taller than I am. A string quartet plays in the corner, their music floating above the conversations of hundreds of guests I don’t know.

Through it all, Marco’s hand stays firm on my waist, his fingers occasionally digging in when I falter in my responses to well-wishers. It’s a silent, constant reminder to play my part.

“Smile, Mrs. Bianchi,” he whispers against my ear as another couple approaches. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”

I force my lips to curl upward, though the effort makes my face ache.

“Ah, Giovanni!” Marco greets the approaching man with the warmth he hasn’t once shown me. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Bianchi.”

Not Chiara. Just Mrs. Bianchi. I feel the terror rise in my throat again, of what’s to come when we’re alone.

“Lovely to meet you,” the man says, kissing my hand. “Marco is a lucky man.”

“I certainly am,” Marco agrees, his arm sliding around my waist, fingers splaying possessively over my hip. When thecouple moves on, he squeezes, hard enough to make me wince but not from pain, from what he’s trying to tell me. “You’re doing well,” he says, “but not well enough. I thought you were the moreeffusivetwin, Chiara.”

My blood freezes in my veins. He knows we’re twins. I let myself hope for a moment. What if… he’s angry because he didn’t know we were twins earlier. What if that’s it? The big secret he discovered?

I let myself hope. But something tells me he’s too smart to be shaken by such a thing.

The rest of the reception passes in a blur of introductions and champagne I don’t dare drink more than a few sips. I need my wits about me for whatever comes later. Marco is all charm and smiles for his guests, the perfect gracious host.

When it’s time for our first dance, Marco leads me to the center of the dance floor. The guests gather around in a circle, smiling at the beautiful couple about to perform their first dance as husband and wife. If they only knew.

Marco pulls me into his arms with practiced ease, one hand resting at the curve of my waist, the other clasping mine. He holds me closer than is proper, my body flush against his, and I can feel the hard lines of him beneath our formal clothes.

I tremble, worried I’ll make a fool of myself, and I glance up, wide-eyed and panicking.

“Follow my lead,” he says gently, to my surprise, and it’s both encouragement and a broader command.

The sweeping music begins, and Marco moves with unexpected grace for such a large man. He guides me across the floor, his steps confident and controlled. I’m no dancer, but his lead is so strong that I can’t help but follow, my body responding to his direction even as my mind rebels.

His hand slides lower, cupping my ass through the satin dress, and I gasp. He smiles with the quiet confidence of a predator.

“Something wrong?” he asks, spinning me out and then pulling me back, harder this time, so that I collide with his chest.

“People are watching,” I whisper, aware of the eyes following our every move.

“Let them watch,” he says, his thigh pressing between mine as we move. “Let them see how I’m going to take you apart later.”

Heat floods my face, and lower, a shameful arousal builds despite my fear—or perhaps because of it. His hand splays across my lower back, fingers dangerously close to the tattoo hidden beneath my dress, the hummingbird that marks me as Aria, not Chiara.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the exact spot where my ink is. “And here I thought you were scared to dance. I wonder what other secrets you’re keeping.”

He spins me again, and when I return to him, his hand slides up to the nape of my neck, gripping the fine hairs there and tilting my face up to his. It looks romantic to the onlookers, I’m sure, but there’s nothing romantic in the steel of his grip or the ice in his eyes.

“You look petrified, Mrs. Bianchi,” he says, lips barely moving. “I thought three days were enough to prepare you for this wedding.”

The music swells, and he dips me backward, his body covering mine, supporting my weight. From this angle, I’m completely at his mercy, vulnerable and exposed. His face hovers inches from mine.

“But here’s the thing about marriage,” he continues, his breath hot against my lips. “Even if you’re scared, you can’t just be out. They’re binding, regardless of who speaks them. You are my wife now. Mine to possess in every way”

He pulls me upright, continuing the dance as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just shattered my world with a few sentences. My legs are trembling beneath me, and only his firm grip keeps me from collapsing.

His hand strokes down my spine, possessive and threatening all at once. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”