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I’m close enough now to smell her perfume, the same scent I remember from our one previous encounter. Another tell.

I lift my hand, watching her flinch slightly as I trace a finger down her bare shoulder and goosebumps follow my touch.

“You lie so prettily,” I murmur. Her breath hitches. I lean down, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “But I don’t want to go to bed with a stranger.”

Her eyes widen, but she attempts a laugh that falls flat. “What are you talking about?”

I lean in closer, my mouth directly in her ear. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

She pulls away, desperate to put space between them, but the window traps her. “A stranger? You knew exactly who I was when you proposed. Don’t act like you didn’t.”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” I place my hands on the window on either side of her, caging her in. “You look like Chiara. You sound like Chiara. But you’re not her. I’ve known something was off since the moment you walked down the aisle.”

“I don’t understand?—”

“Stop,” I cut her off. “You think I don’t know? Didn’t learn it wasn’t Chiara serving coffee that day? You think I couldn’t tell the difference between a scammer and a woman who looks like she’s drowning every time someone so much as raises their voice? You think I don’t have the memory of your skin etchedupon me so tight that I can’t tell the difference between you and your sister?”

I crowd her against the glass. Her hands flatten against the cool pane as if she could melt into it.

“Tell me the truth.”

She flinches. And that’s all the confirmation I need.

My hands settle on her waist, turning her gently but firmly to face the window again. She stiffens, confused.

My fingers find the zipper of her dress. I draw it down, inch by torturous inch, until it pools at the small of her back, right above the crack of her ass. I peel the satin aside and there—right there—marked on the delicate slope of her back, just above her panties, is a small hummingbird tattoo.

I trace the ink with the pad of my thumb, slow and deliberate.

“Aria,” I whisper against her exposed skin. “I remember this tattoo from that night you let me fuck you to Chiara’s name, a tattoo I’m certain your sister doesn’t have.”

She gasps—a broken, breathless sound—and spins around to face me, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

I catch her chin in a hard grip, tilting her face to mine. I want her to feel my rage at having been deceived. I want her to know exactly what she’s done.

The color drains from her face. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

“Did you think I wouldn’t do my due diligence? That I wouldn’t thoroughly investigate the woman I was arranging to marry?”

“I—” she starts, then stops.

A single tear trails down her cheek, leaving a dark mascara track. I catch it with my thumb, then examine the black smudge like it’s evidence.

“Tell me what little secrets you’ve been keeping,” I demand. “I want to hear your name on your lips.”

She closes her eyes, defeat settling over her features. “Aria,” she whispers. “My name is Aria.”

The truth at last. I step back just enough to see her fully. “Well, Aria. Would you like to explain why you’re wearing the wedding dress intended for Chiara? Why you’ve been pretending to be her for what appears to be the most important day of my life?”

Her hands twist together, wringing anxiously. “Chiara called me last night. She said she needed me to come to a wedding as her plus one, and that she had no one to go with. When I got here, she called and said she needed me to stand in for her,” Aria’s voice breaks.

“And instead of telling me, you decided to what? Continue the charade? Marry me in her place?” My voice is ice, but inside I’m burning with anger for what her sister did to her.

“I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t understand why she would leave, why she would do this to both of us.” Her eyes plead with me. “I thought maybe if I didn’t step in, you’d hurt us and?—”

“Let me guess. She’d taken the money and run.”

Aria’s surprise is genuine. “You knew?”