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A quiet knock on the door stirs me from my peaceful slumber. “Jordyn, it’s time to wake up, sweetheart.”

With an audible groan, I hug the pillow and nestle my face into plushness with a quiet and content moan. “Five more minutes.”

The bedroom door creaks as it slowly opens, and I hear the lithe footsteps of my mother Anna, as she walks into the guest bedroom and over to my bed.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago. Your sister is already up and getting ready and as her maid of honour you should be by her side, not in bed, lazy bum. Come on, it’s her big day and she’s already full of nerves.”

With a grunt of reluctance, I roll over onto my back and peel open one eye to see my mother standing over me with a loving smile.

My Dad always insists that I'm a spitting image of her, but I can't see it.

Sure, we both have dark blue eyes and long sandy blonde hair, but aside from that, I don't think we share many similarities.

Her hair falls in soft waves around her face as she leans down to ruffle my hair affectionately, the scent of her favourite perfume wafting towards me.

Despite how similar others may claim we look; I've never felt quite as graceful next to my mother's elegant presence. My older sister Bianca has inherited more of my father’s dark features, with her shoulder length chestnut-coloured hair and chocolate brown eyes. When we’re standing side by side, you wouldn’t even associate us as sisters, that’s how different we look.

My parents, Anna and James, are still completely smitten with each other, even in their fifties.

They met in high school, fell in love, and had Bianca at seventeen.

They managed to raise her while still finding their footing in the world.

Fourteen years later, I arrived. A carefully planned addition.

Bianca was a surprise. I was expected. I remind her of that fact often, just to annoy her.

Their love is something rare. They laugh together, flirt like teenagers, and make everyone in the room roll their eyes. Sometimes it’s endearing, sometimes it’s nauseating, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find someone who looks at me the way Dad still looks at Mum.

I sit up and stretch, arms raised until my spine cracks. This bed is dangerously comfortable. For once, I’ve woken up without any aches. It feels like I’ve spent the night wrapped in a warm cloud.

“You missed breakfast, but I can ask the kitchen to prepare something while you shower,” Mum says, now standing by the window. She pulls back the curtains, letting sunlight flood the room and stab at my eyes.

“No, I’m still stuffed full of the food I consumed at the rehearsal dinner last night.

” I groan, rubbing a hand over the flat planes of my stomach.

“I fell into a carb coma consuming two generous servings of that chicken pasta.” I hum and my mother smiles as she walks over and presses an affectionate kiss to my temple.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be with your sister in her room with hair and make-up, please take your shower and join us. We have less than three hours before the ceremony.” She instructs in a tranquil manner as she turns and walks out of the bedroom.

I yawn once more and force myself to nod. “Yes, mother.”

With great reluctance, I drag my tired body out of the plush guest bedroom and begin to trudge towards one of the seven lavishly decorated bathrooms in this extravagant manor.

The cool marble floors feel like ice against my bare feet as I make my way through the spacious halls.

The opulence is overwhelming. Eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms, two dining rooms, a home theatre, and a sprawling back yard that seems to go on forever.

How do they even find each other in this maze of a house? In the four days I've been here, I've managed to get lost five times trying to navigate my way around. They really should have maps posted throughout the manor to aid guests in finding their way.

As I wander down yet another corridor, marvelling at the elaborate artwork and intricate details adorning every inch of the walls, I can't help but feel like an insignificant speck in this vast, luxurious estate.

Bianca and Enzo crossed paths a year ago during her girl’s trip to Rome while he was there on business.

According to Biana, they hit it off immediately.

She calls it fate. I call it convenient timing.

According to her, she made a wish and tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain the night before they met, hoping to find true love.

And then, like something out of a romantic novel while she was sat in a quaint café in Vatican City the next morning, in walked Enzo Russo, dressed impeccably in an expensive Italian suit, of course, the epitome of every woman’s desire.

She’s not a gold-digger, but the man’s wealth certainly didn’t hurt her feelings.

At forty years old, Enzo’s appeal is undeniable.

His olive skin radiates a warm tan glow, complementing his dark brown hair and piercing hazel eyes that shimmer in the sunlight like two pots of golden honey.

Despite his rugged good looks, what stands out most is the way he dotes on my sister, showing genuine love and affection towards her.

However, there is something about him that gives off a strong ‘Italian mafia’ vibe, making me slightly wary of his intentions.

Surely, he couldn’t have found his level of success solely through designing women's shoes, but perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye.

My sister mentioned that his parents passed away over ten years ago, but he does have a younger brother, Ares, who is in his early thirties and lives in the mansion next door, which is built on the same plot of land as Enzo’s mansion.

Two wealthy Italian men in Taormina, Sicily, they certainly fit right in with the stereotype.

Or perhaps I've simply indulged in one too many dark romance novels, allowing my imagination to run wild with speculation.

Enzo was previously married for eighteen years to his first wife Elena, but they separated for a while and divorced some years ago.

They have a son together, Matteo, who if I recall correctly is twenty.

I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, but from what I have heard from my sister, he’s a broody, conceited asshole who isn’t entirely pleased about his father marrying my sister.

Truthfully, though, which kid would want to see their Dad remarrying someone else.

I know I wouldn’t. However, I know my sister and her lovable perseverance will win him over in no time, I’m sure.

By the time the ceremony creeps close, everything has blurred into anticipation and chaos. My sister and Enzo opted to have the ceremony and wedding in the backyard of the mansion. After all, there is no shortage of space for the two-hundred odd guests attending.

The mansion, an elegant blend of baroque and neoclassical architecture, stands tall with its weathered stone facade, ivy-covered walls, and arched windows overlooking the serene Mediterranean landscape.

The backdrop includes rolling hills dotted with olive groves, and the distant glimmer of the sea under the warm, golden Sicilian sun.

The ceremony is due to take place under a rustic pergola draped with cascading bougainvillea and fragrant jasmine, with the scent of lemon blossoms wafting through the air.

Beneath the pergola, a long, antique wooden table serves as the altar, adorned with an array of white and blush roses, eucalyptus, and olive branches, creating a dreamy and timeless setting.

Wrought-iron lanterns and candles in glass holders are scattered around, casting a soft glow as the sun begins to set.

Ugh, it’s just so romantic.

Guests are seated and waiting for the ceremony to begin on white Chiavari chairs arranged in neat rows on the manicured lawn, each chair tied with ribbons in soft shades of cream and blush pink. A string quartet plays classical Sicilian melodies, adding to the romantic atmosphere.

With precision and care, I glide the shimmery lip gloss across my lips, admiring the way it catches the light and enhances their natural fullness. My sister’s voice cuts through my concentration, causing me to turn and take in her appearance.

The hair artist works diligently, weaving each strand of her hair into loose, cascading beach waves that frame her face perfectly.

A glimmering diamante floral hairpiece adorns the left side of her head, adding a touch of glamour to her already ethereal look.

My heart swells with emotion as I pause to fully appreciate her beauty and poise.

She stands before me like a vision, exuding radiance and grace.

Standing there, watching her, something tugs at me.

I’ve always known I was the less striking one in the family.

Not unattractive, not invisible, but different.

Where Bianca wears fitted dresses and glides through rooms, I prefer jeans and T-shirts and staying just far enough out of the spotlight.

But today the bridesmaid dress clings to me like an overly affectionate stranger, and the heels, designed by Enzo himself, feel like miniature torture devices.

How she manages to make even the most uncomfortable clothes look like they were made for her is beyond me.

“How do I look?” Bianca questions, looking down at herself and smoothing down the skirt to her gown with her hands. “Do you think Enzo will like the dress?”

Walking over to her, I reach out and take her hands into mine and smile. “B, he will love it. You look so beautiful. I promise you, the moment he sets his eyes on you, you will steal the air right out of his lungs.”

My sister smiles, satisfied by my response and gives my hands a squeeze. “I can’t believe I’m getting married and to Enzo Russo . It still feels so surreal.” I can hear the nerves in her voice when she speaks.