"You're marrying him, Anastasia. The wedding is this Thursday. That's final."
I didn't flinch.
I just blinked at Damiano Vetrova from across the dinner table, the porcelain spoon in my hand trembling faintly as it hovered above untouched soup.
Chiara scoffed beside me. "She should be grateful. No one else would take her."
I set the spoon down.
"I never agreed to this," I said, quietly, calmly, with the kind of stillness that frightened people when it came from someone like me.
"You don't have to agree," Viola snapped, her wine glass clinking as she set it down sharply. "We raised you. Fed you. Schooled you. You'll repay that."
"By being sold?" I asked, meeting her cold, hazel eyes.
"By being useful," Chiara drawled, inspecting her perfectly painted nails. "You should be thanking me. That proposal was meant for me. But I'm not marrying some washed-up ex-general with a savior complex just because his family owns half the medical world."
"Because you have your eye on a richer one." I smiled thinly.
She paused. "Exactly."
Damiano leaned forward. "His name is Alessandro Moretti. He's thirty-two. Head surgeon at San Liorenzo Hospital. And the only reason he agreed to this farce is because Claudia Moretti insisted on a traditional alliance. He thinks you're marrying him for money."
"And you didn't correct him?" I asked softly.
Viola smirked. "Would you believe it if someone told you otherwise?"
I didn't reply.
Because I wouldn't.
The guest room they threw me into that night smelled like expensive linen and fresh roses…like every false thing in this house.
I sat at the edge of the bed, unzipped my dress, and stared at the red welts blooming along my ribcage from the corset. My body was thin, fragile. My illness wasn't loud anymore, just a quiet ache in my lungs and a buzzing silence in my blood.
Two months, maybe three, Dr. Leon had said.
I hadn't told anyone.
What was the point?
They were already planning my funeral…in white lace and vows.
Thursday.
No music.
No guests.
Just silence and tension thick enough to suffocate on.
The chapel at the Moretti estate was grand…marble floors, gold arches, saints staring down in judgment. I stood at the end of the aisle, in a dress altered from Chiara's original, watching the clock tick past noon.
No groom.
I stood alone.
Claudia Moretti turned to her assistant and whispered something in rapid Italian. "È vergognoso. He's humiliating us."
Damiano smiled nervously. "He'll come. Surely."
Chiara yawned behind me. "Can't wait to see the look on her face when he doesn't."
The double doors opened.
Every head turned.
And there he was.
Alessandro Moretti walked in like a storm wrapped in a three-piece suit. Black tie, sharp jaw, eyes like onyx glass, his gait lazy and powerful. One look and I understood why soldiers followed him into war. Why doctors feared him in the OR.
Why women still whispered his name like prayer and poison.
He stopped at the altar, looked me over once..head to toe, unimpressed..and said, "Let's just do this."
No greeting.
No apology.
Nothing.
The priest began. I heard none of it.
My pulse was too loud.
"You may now exchange your vows," the priest said eventually.
"I vow nothing," Alessandro murmured under his breath. "I'm here because my mother forced my hand. Let's not pretend this means anything."
I swallowed.
And lied.
"I do."
He stared at me. For the first time, really stared.
There was no kiss.
He turned and walked down the aisle.
I followed him like a shadow.
He didn't open the car door.
He didn't glance back as I trailed him up the marble steps of the Moretti villa.
"Your room's at the end of the hall," he said, voice sharp and smooth like vodka. "Stay out of mine. Stay out of my way."
I looked up at him. "And if I don't?"
His jaw clenched. "Don't test me."
I didn't reply.
He turned and walked away.
Later that night, I found him on the terrace, nursing a glass of whiskey, staring out at the gardens like the statues whispered secrets to him.
"I don't expect anything from you," I said from the doorway.
He didn't turn around. "Good."
"I didn't ask for this either."
His laugh was bitter and humorless. "No. You just agreed fast enough."
"I had no choice."
He turned then, finally facing me. "Everyone has a choice. You made yours."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I don't want to."
His words sliced through the quiet like a scalpel.
I nodded once, turned to leave…
"Don't fall in love with me, Anastasia."
I stopped.
"Why?" I asked over my shoulder.
"Because I won't save you."
I closed the door behind me and exhaled.
His voice still clung to my skin like cigarette smoke..rough, bitter, addicting in the worst way.
"Don't fall in love with me…"
I leaned against the wood and whispered to the silence, "You'd be lucky if I ever could."
The days that followed were a masterclass in humiliation.
The staff barely acknowledged me. His housekeeper, Emilia, brought meals to my room like I was an invalid. Alessandro didn't eat dinner at home. When he did, he made sure I wasn't invited to the table.
On the rare morning we crossed paths in the hallway, he didn't look at me. He looked through me.
On the sixth day, I sat alone in the sunroom, sketching something meaningless into the corner of a book when the door opened.
Giulia Ricci walked in like she owned the place.
Her heels clicked softly across the marble as she surveyed me with the bored elegance of a woman who already saw herself as the queen of this house.
"Oh. You must be the wife."
Her smile was sugar and venom.
I stood. "And you are?"
She laughed. "How quickly they forget. Giulia Ricci. Family friend. Former fiancée. Future again, if we're honest."
I didn't flinch. "Funny. He didn't mention you."
"Doesn't need to. I'm the one he calls when he's had too much wine. Or too much silence."
She stepped closer.
"I admire your courage," she said sweetly. "Walking into a house like this with nothing but a marriage certificate and your… tragic backstory."
I tilted my head. "I admire yours. Being second choice takes spine."
She blinked.
I didn't wait for a response. I turned and walked past her.
That night, Alessandro returned from the hospital past midnight. I heard the door slam and the sound of shoes tossed carelessly. I heard the pop of a bottle and the quiet grunt as he poured into a glass.
Then silence.
Then…
"Why are you still awake?" His voice behind me.
I didn't turn. "Why are you asking?"
I sat in the dark, curled on the couch in the guest lounge, wrapped in a blanket. A fever burned behind my eyes. My lips were cracked.
"I thought you were mute," he muttered.
"I thought you were celibate, but clearly, Giulia disproved that."
His jaw ticked. "Careful."
"Why? What will you do? Hurt me more than you already have?"
His glass clinked down on the table. "You act like a victim."
"Because I am one."
He moved closer, towering over me.
"You're here because your family sold you."
"I didn't choose to be their daughter."
"You said yes to the ring."
I stood.
"So did you."
We were close. Too close. His breath touched my skin, laced with whiskey and rage and something I didn't want to admit stirred under my skin.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. I saw it.
He hated me.
But he wanted me.
That made it worse.
"You think I want you?" he whispered.
"No. I think you need someone to hate more than yourself."
He grabbed my wrist. "I could break you."
"You already did."
His lips crashed into mine before either of us could stop it.
The kiss wasn't soft.
It wasn't sweet.
It was war.
He shoved me back against the wall, mouth hot and bruising, his hands pressing against my hips, caging me there. My hands fisted into his shirt, not pulling him in…but not pushing him away either.
He groaned into my mouth like he hated himself for even needing the taste of me.
Then he pulled back, breath ragged.
"This never happened," he growled. "You seduced me."
I slapped him.
Not because it hurt.
But because he wanted it to.
He stumbled back.
And I walked away.
The next morning, I stood on the terrace in silence, nursing a headache and a fever that clung to my bones. The wind was cold, too cold, and I knew I shouldn't be standing there..but the thought of facing him in that house made my stomach twist.
He came out moments later, buttoning his cuffs like the world hadn't tilted off its axis hours ago.
"Last night…" I started.
"Don't talk about it." His voice was ice. "We were drunk."
"You were."
He didn't reply.
I walked past him, shoulders straight, spine steel.
"I'll never beg for your affection," I said as I passed.
"Good," he said, "because you'll never get it."