Page 39

Nicolas notices the stumble, his dark eyes following my every move, but he doesn’t comment. It‘s like watching the mask slip, the asshole I know creeping back into place.

I walk as steadily as I can, trying not to think about Nicolas or Marco or that my entire body is still on fire from Nicolas’ touch.

When I finally reach the bathroom, I step inside and shut the door behind me. But before I can even lock it, it swings open again.

Marco steps inside, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. His sharp eyes scan me from head to toe.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone deceptively casual. “You’re as red as a tomato.”

I glance at the mirror and realize he’s right. My cheeks are flushed.

“I-I’m fine.”

“Good. So, how’s married life treating you?” he adds, leaning casually against the doorframe.

For some reason, I think he’s asking because he actually cares.

I cross my arms, leaning back against the sink, ready to tell him how hard it’s been, how Nicolas brought up our father. How cruel he’s been. “After the ceremony, I?—”

But Marco cuts me off, his expression hardening.

“Don’t forget why you’re here, Aria.”

His voice is sharp, a warning cloaked in charm. He winks, adjusts his tie, and walks away, leaving me alone, the weight of his words sinking into my chest.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The flush in my cheeks has completely faded, and the tingling sensation from Nicolas’ touch is long gone. Uder the harsh fluorescent lights, my face looks pale, almost ghostly. My heart feels heavy, like it’s slowly sinking into the pit of my stomach.

I take a deep breath, smoothing down my dress with trembling hands. Whatever warmth I felt at the table, whatever fleeting connection Nicolas and I shared—it doesn’t matter. It was an illusion.

And if I want to avoid breaking my own heart, I need to remember that.

When I step out of the bathroom, I almost collide with someone.

“Aria.”

The voice stops me cold—familiar, low, and paired with a perfume I recognize instantly. I look up and see Elena.

Her black dress clings to her elegant figure, perfectly tailored. Her glossy, wavy hair cascades over her shoulders, gleaming under the soft hallway lighting like polished glass. She smiles, red lips curving upward with an effortless confidence that’s almost intimidating in its perfection.

“Elena,” I manage

“Hi pretty girl,” she says, her smile widening like she’s greeting an old friend. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“You have?”

“Of course!” she beams. “I mean, who wouldn’t? A Rossi marrying a Paolo—it’s the kind of news that shakes the room. And so fast, too! It should’ve been the wedding of the year. But what happened? Why the rush?”

I pause, unsure how to respond. I’ve never been good at these kinds of exchanges. Small talk with women like Elena feels like walking on a tightrope—one wrong step, and I’ll fall. Is this how friendships with women are supposed to work? You meet once, and suddenly you’re diving headfirst into gossip and personal questions?

I force a laugh, trying to sound as casual as she does. “I guess we were just so madly in love that we couldn’t wait another day.”

She laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. It’s impossible to tell if she buys the story, but the truth is, I don’t care.

“Well, the why doesn’t matter anyway. Congratulations on the marriage,” she says, her smile finally reaching her eyes. But even then, it doesn’t feel entirely genuine. I can’t figure her out.

Then again, when have I ever been able to figure anybody out? Not even myself.

“How’s it going so far?” she asks, her gaze never leaving mine.