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Chapter Seven

Nora

L ast night's conversation with Rafaele unsettled me for far too many reasons. One of them was the undeniable effect of his raw masculinity—the way he walked in, so sure of himself, and how my stomach flipped when he started to undress. I hate that, despite everything, this man has such a powerful effect on me. It's not love, but there's definitely attraction.

He may not be classically handsome, but to me, there's something undeniably compelling about him. His presence commands attention, and I can’t help but be drawn to it, even when I know I shouldn’t be. I think there must be something wrong with me because when he showed me his darker side—threatening any potential lovers—I didn’t feel the rush of fear that I probably should have. No, what I felt was a surge of heat at the possessiveness in his tone.

I run my hands over my face, trying to shake the memory. How did I end up here, on the verge of marrying a man who sees me as nothing more than a transaction yet somehow manages to make me feel more alive than I have in years? It's confusing, and worse, it's dangerous.

Today is my wedding day, and I should be thinking about what this marriage means—about duty, family, and the role I’m about to step into. But instead, my mind keeps circling back to Rafaele, to the way he looked at me last night, the way his presence filled the room, and the conflicting emotions he brings out in me.

I can’t afford to get caught up in any feelings. This marriage is a business arrangement, nothing more. I need to erase the memory of his small gestures and focus on the reality of who he truly is—the man he revealed to me last night, the one who embodies control and power, not care or affection.

I need to erase the way he insisted I come to him if I needed help with the wedding. My mother said it wasn’t about offering help; it was about asserting control. For a moment, I foolishly thought it might be something more, but then he disappeared for weeks, only to have a ridiculously expensive bag delivered to my door as if that could make up for his absence.

My mother’s warning echoes in my mind: Don’t be stupid, Nora. Don’t be like me. Actions speak louder than gifts. She’d told me how my father had acted similarly when she was still young and naive, showering her with gifts every time he hurt her. She’d thought it was because he sought forgiveness, but it was only to maintain peace and keep her compliant.

Remember who he is. Remember who you are . My mother’s voice is loud and clear in my head. My heart needs to stay guarded. I can’t let myself get hurt—not by him, not by anyone.

I glance at the clock. It’s time to get ready, and as if on cue, there’s a knock at my door. Lucia steps in, dressed in sweatpants, a sharp contrast to the elegance I’ll soon be forced into.

“Time to take you to the bridal suite,” she says, picking up the bag with my dress in it.

I take a deep breath and nod. “Let’s get this over with.”

Lucia leads me down the hallway, her usual lighthearted demeanor subdued by the gravity of the day. As we reach the bridal suite, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness when I notice that my mother isn’t there. I’m not really surprised, but it still stings. She’s been distant throughout this whole process, and I’m not even sure she’ll show up for the ceremony.

Lucia sets the dress down gently, giving me a quick, reassuring smile. “It’s going to be fine, Nora. Just breathe.”

I nod, too wrapped up in my thoughts to engage in small talk.

A makeup artist enters the room, rolling in a small cart filled with cosmetics. She’s a slender woman with a kind smile, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. “Hello, Nora,” she greets me warmly. “I’m Sonia. Let’s get you looking even more beautiful, shall we?”

“Sure,” I murmur, settling into the chair.

She begins her work, her hands steady and gentle. “Do you have any particular look in mind? Something soft and natural, or perhaps a bit more dramatic?”

“Natural,” I reply quietly. “But maybe a little color around the eyes to match the flowers on my dress.”

“Of course,” Sonia says, her tone understanding. “A soft lilac, perhaps? It’ll bring out the blue in your eyes.”

I nod, watching as she starts applying the makeup. Her touch is light, almost soothing, and I find myself relaxing a little, letting the rhythm of the brushstrokes calm me.

Lucia moves around the room, her presence comforting even in its quietness. She’s slipped into her dress—a light lilac gown that matches the flowers on mine perfectly. When she catches me looking at her, she gives me a small, encouraging smile.

“You look beautiful, Lucia,” I manage to say, my voice soft but sincere.

“Thanks,” she replies, smoothing the fabric of her lilac dress over her hips. “And you’re going to be stunning. Trust me, Rafaele won’t know what hit him.”

I smile at that, a small gesture of appreciation. Deep down, though, I doubt Rafaele will truly notice or care. He’s being forced into this marriage just as much as I am—more so, perhaps, because I had at least a semblance of choice.

I opted for no veil or tiara, just my grandmother's pearl comb in my hair—another break in tradition, but at this point, who’s counting? I stand up, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. Despite everything, I can’t help but smile at the sight. I am beautiful today. The décolleté enhances my figure, and the hair and makeup make me feel like a brand-new woman.

“You are truly stunning, Nora. One of the most beautiful brides I’ve ever seen,” Lucia says, resting her hand over her heart.

“You’re kind of obligated to say that. You’re my maid of honor,” I reply with a hint of a smile.

She snorts. “Please, I’d never lie about something like this.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door.

“Nora, sweetheart, are you ready?” I hear my father’s voice from the other side.

“Yes, I’ll be right there.” I nod to Lucia, who opens the door for me.

As we walk down the corridor, Leo appears with a smirk on his face.

“Do you need anything?” Lucia asks, her voice carrying a warning. I guess she’s not a fan of her cousin either.

“I just wanted to see the beautiful bride and wish her all the luck in the world.” He leans in closer and whispers, “You see my date?” I glance past him at the tall, stunning brunette standing awkwardly behind him. Her smile seems to be an apology.

“She is beautiful,” I say, trying to sound neutral.

Leo nods. “Her name is Camilla. She’s my brother’s favorite. The girl he spends most of his time with at The Sacristy.”

The Sacristy—the club where men go to fulfill their desires, married or unmarried.

“I see,” I reply, my voice even. “And you’re telling me this because?”

He shrugs. “Knowledge is power, isn’t it, sister-in-law?”

I don’t react, refusing to let him see how his words have shaken me. Lucia catches my eye and gives me a small, encouraging nod. We continue to the chapel, where the atmosphere feels heavy with expectation.

The space is filled with guests, the murmurs and rustling creating a low hum. The ceremony begins, and I try to focus on each step, each word of the vows, but it feels like a distant echo.

As I reach the altar, Rafaele stands there, his face composed, but his eyes… they’re fixed on me with an intensity I can’t quite decipher. I feel his gaze traveling over me, lingering on the way the dress reveals just enough of my figure. There’s something there—admiration, maybe even attraction—but I push the thought away. He’s just playing his role.

I step up beside him, and as the officiant begins, I lean in, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

Rafaele tugs at my arm, pulling me closer. “Why?” he asks, his voice low, curious.

I glance toward Camilla, elegant and confident in the audience, everything I’m not. “For choosing you without thinking about what you might want. I’m not her; I’m not Camilla. I’m sorry about last night. You have every right to be angry.”

His eyes dart toward Leo and the woman by his side. Anger flashes across his face, his grip on my hand tightening. When he turns back to me, there’s a softness in his gaze.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, feeling tears pricking at my eyes. He squeezes my hand tighter.

“No,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re not her, and thank God for that. There’s no one like you, Nora, and I’m the one who gets to keep you.”

His words send a shiver down my spine. They carry a weight, a hint of possessiveness, something deeper than duty. I feel his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand, a small, almost tender gesture. For a moment, I think I see something softer in his eyes, but I dismiss it as my imagination.

The officiant clears his throat, and we turn back to him. As the ceremony continues, Rafaele’s hand never leaves mine, his grip steady, a silent reassurance. To others, he might appear stoic, but there’s a tension in his posture, a protectiveness I hadn’t noticed before.

When he speaks his vows, his voice is steady, but there’s a warmth in his words, a softness that feels… almost affectionate.

“I do,” he says, his gaze locked onto mine. It’s just two words, but the way he says them, with a weight that feels like more than just a formality, makes my heart skip a beat. I quickly push the thought away; he’s just playing his part.

“I do,” I echo, keeping my voice steady.

When it’s time for the kiss, Rafaele cups my cheek, his touch unexpectedly gentle. His lips brush against mine, soft yet firm, remaining just a heartbeat longer than necessary. The warmth of his breath grazes my skin, and despite myself, my pulse quickens.

He pulls back, his hand still gripping mine, leading me down the aisle. I sense something different in the way he holds me, but I shake my head, dismissing it. This is just an act; it has to be.

As we pass the rows of guests, his thumb continues to trace small circles on the back of my hand. It seems almost absent-minded, a touch that isn’t meant to be noticed, but I do, and I find myself clinging to it. His touch is grounding, a small comfort that makes me forget the eyes watching us—Leo’s smug grin, Camilla’s uncertain smile, even my mother’s distant gaze.

I sigh softly as we finally exit the church, the importance of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. Rafaele glances at me, his brow furrowed. “Nora, this isn’t what it looks like.”

I shake my head, determined to stay composed. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I head toward the car waiting to take us back to his parents' estate. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing at my words. For a moment, I think he might say something more, but he simply nods, his expression unreadable. We slide into the back seat, and a tense silence settles between us.

The car door closes, and as we pull away from the church, I focus on the steady rhythm of the road beneath us, trying to block out everything else—the guests, the stares, and the questions that still remain.

But in the quiet, his hand stays over mine, firm and steady.

For now, it’s enough.