Page 2
“I just needed a minute. I’m fine,” I lie, sliding into the polished calm I wear like armor—the kind you learn to stitch together when you grow up being passed around in foster homes and told to be 'grateful.'
The same armor my therapist says kept me alive… but won’t let anyone all the way in.
“You’re rattled,” he says, voice gentler now. “Which doesn’t happen to women like you.”
I cross my arms, the silk of my dress suddenly too hot against my skin.
“And what exactly does that mean—‘women like me’?”
“Strong. Sharp. Impossibly put together. The kind who exits the second things get too real.”
He walks past me, unhurried, until he’s close enough to steal my breath.
Close enough that even the air feels compromised.
I open my mouth—then close it.
Because damn it, he’s not wrong.
And that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on.
Clearly I have a type: dangerous, observant… and probably armed.
“Maybe I just needed space,” I mutter, knowing damn well it’s a lie I want to believe.
“You need a release,” he says, eyes dragging over me. “But you won’t ask. You’ll bury it under logic and act like that ache doesn’t exist.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
“Do you always psychoanalyze women at weddings?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.
“No,” he says softly. “Just the ones who fascinate me.”
Oh no.
Don’t like that. Don’t feel that.
That should’ve been a red flag. Hell, all his lines should come with a warning label.
He’s a walking disaster.
A beautiful, well-dressed catastrophe.
And I don’t even know his name.
He watches me like he’s offering a choice, not making a move. And it’s infuriating how badly I want to say yes to whatever fire he’s holding out.
“I think you’ve been holding yourself together for so long, you’ve forgotten how to let go. I think…”
He lifts his hand, brushing a curl from my cheek.
“You want someone who won’t apologize for wanting you back.”
Game. Over.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
My entire body goes still—except for the part of me screaming for more.
What am I supposed to say?
Hi, ruin me please?
Because for the first time in months, I don’t want control.
I want him.
“You talk like you’ve already won me,” I say, lifting my chin.
His eyes flare—just slightly.
Surprised. Like I cracked through something most people don’t even get close to.
Like no one talks to him that way.
“I don’t even know your name,” I murmur.
His answer is a slow, easy lie wrapped in truth.
“You don’t need to.”
Ominous. Infuriating. And unnecessarily hot.
“We should go. My friend’s probably wondering if I’ve been murdered or married by now.”
He smirks, just slightly. “She’s smart.”
I nod. Nothing more.
Because I don’t trust myself to say anything sensible.
Knowing me, I’ll ask him to take me somewhere dark?—
and wreck me on purpose.
But I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
We walk out together.
Not touching. Not speaking.
But everything about him is heat—right there beside me. Impossible to ignore.
The space between us crackles, electric. Like the air just before a storm.
And all I can think is:
What does a man like that do with his hands when he’s not saving someone…
but claiming them?
And why does every part of me want to be the thing he claims next?
I glance toward the ballroom doors, then back towards his direction, but he’s gone.
Like smoke. Like he was never real.
But I can still feel the imprint of his hands. Still taste the warning in his voice. And in the pit of my stomach, something tells me— This won’t be the last time he catches me.
And I might not want him to let go.
And then?—
“Eva?”
Sarah Bellacino. Of course.
The venom in her voice is wrapped in sugar.
And just like that, the spell breaks.
The room tilts. Reality slams back into me with a vengeance.
I brace for impact.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—guests rising, stretching, clutching purses and discarded programs.
The ceremony’s just ended, and the feeding frenzy is about to begin.
“Wow,” she purrs. “You look... bold. That dress is definitely working overtime.”
Heat floods my cheeks—rage or shame, I can’t tell.
Soft gasps ripple through the crowd like aftershocks.
Someone coughs—a poor disguise for a laugh.
People freeze.
Heads turn.
“Love that you came, though,” she adds sweetly.
“So empowering to see women own their... volume.”
Her bridesmaids titter—practiced, poisonous—behind flawless, weaponized smiles.
My throat constricts. My skin burns.
I open my mouth to speak—to snap, to scorch, to fight fire with fire?—
But nothing comes.
Not a word.
Just silence, loud enough to drown me.
Then—
“That will be enough.”
A voice slices through the air like broken glass.
Low. Rough. Final.
The entire ballroom stills.
Sarah freezes mid-smirk.
And then I see him.
Stepping forward like he owns the ground beneath every foot in this room.
Him.
The silver fox from earlier steps forward, the crowd parting like they know better than to obstruct him.
“Apologize,” he says.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just… absolute.
Like gravity. Unyielding.
My stomach flips.
No.
No, no, no.
It can’t be?—
I start to tremble, because something clicks?—
A pattern my brain had scrambled to avoid.
The way he watched me. The way everyone else watched him .
From the left, a guest gasps sharply and whispers, “Isn’t that Dante Bellacino? The groom’s father?”
The world screeches to a halt.
My ears buzz. My vision narrows.
The groom’s what?
No.
Fucking.
Way.
The man who just humiliated the bride on her wedding day?—
Who touched me like he owned me?—
Who looked at me like he wanted to ruin me?—
Is my ex’s father.
Dante Bellacino. The Don.
Sarah stammers. “I—it was just a joke, Mr. Bellacino?—”
“Now.”
One word. Spoken like a loaded gun with the safety off.
She flinches. Visibly.
“S-sorry,” she breathes, the word limp and empty.
But the apology doesn’t matter.
Because the power just shifted.
And every person in this ballroom felt it.
He turns to me. Not with a smile.
Just a quiet, lethal promise in his eyes.
“You don’t let people talk to you like that. If you walk out now, I’ll respect it—but if it’s up to me? You’re staying.”
The crowd buzzes.
“Isn’t that…?”
“The Don himself?”
“The groom’s father just defended the ex?”
And just like that, the bride is no longer the story.
I’m the girl he just defended like I belong to him.
The girl who just stole the spotlight from the altar.
Because now?
No one’s looking at Sarah.
No one’s looking at Luca.
Everyone is staring at me.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2 (Reading here)
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48