DIBUANG LAKI-LAKI PECUNDANG DINIKAHI ANAK SULTAN

I never liked weddings. Too much smiling, too much drinking, too much noise. Today was worse. It was my mother’s wedding. And somehow, I already knew my life was about to change in ways I didn’t want.

The church smelled of roses. Too sweet. I sat in the second row, hands knotted in my lap. Whispers floated around me.

“That’s her daughter.”

“Poor girl. This will be an adjustment.”

“She should be grateful. Falconeri money changes everything.”

My skin prickled. I kept my head down.

My mother, Elizabeth Rossi, stood at the altar glowing in white satin. She looked like she belonged in a magazine. When her eyes found mine, I caught the plea in them. Don’t ruin this for me.

I sat straighter.

The doors opened. Marcelo Falconeri walked in. Tall. Silver at the temples. Black suit pressed sharp. The room hushed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

Two women behind me whispered again.

“He looks younger in person.”

“Not young enough for her.”

The vows blurred. The priest spoke. My mother said yes, voice shaking. Marcelo said yes too, steady as steel. When they kissed, the crowd clapped. My hands moved on their own, though my chest stayed tight.

At the reception, the world turned louder. Music, laughter, too much perfume. The Falconeri mansion gleamed with gold frames and marble floors. I stayed close to the wall with a glass of champagne I didn’t want.

“Aurora, sweetheart.” My mother caught my arm, pulling me close. Her perfume was familiar, warm. “Don’t sulk. Tonight is special.”

“I’m not sulking.”

She tilted her head. “He makes me happy. That’s enough for me. Okay?”

I forced a nod. “Okay.”

She kissed my cheek and drifted back to Marcelo’s side.

A group of strangers watched me from across the room. One woman pointed. “That’s Elizabeth’s daughter.”

Another leaned closer to her. “Pretty, but… not Falconeri blood.”

I lifted my chin like I didn’t hear.

“Bored?”

I turned. A girl my age stood beside me. Red dress, dark hair, sly smile.

“A little.”

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, sipping her drink. “Family events are all the same. Loud. Fake. Exhausting.”

“You’re family?”

“Cousin.” She leaned closer. “You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“Met who?”

Her smirk deepened. “Ricardo. Marcelo’s son.”

My pulse jumped. “I’ve only heard about him.”

“You’ll hear more,” she promised, then slipped back into the crowd before I could ask.

Her words stuck like a hook in my chest. Ricardo Falconeri. My new stepbrother. Ruthless, brilliant, wild. That was the rumor.

I tried to shake it off. I talked with an older couple about my studies. I forced smiles. I checked my phone even though there was no signal. By midnight, I’d had enough.

I slipped outside into the garden. The night air was cool, finally quiet. I leaned on the stone railing, breathing in relief.

The door behind me opened.

Footsteps. Voices dropping low.

I turned.

And there he was.

Ricardo Falconeri.

He walked into the garden, suit dark, eyes darker. His presence pulled the air tight. The whispers inside seemed to fade, though music still played faintly.

Our eyes locked. Just for a second.

It was enough to steal the air from my lungs.

He stopped a few feet away. His gaze swept over me, slow, assessing.

“You’re her daughter.” His voice was low, even.

“Yes.” My throat felt tight.

“Aurora, right?”

I nodded. “And you’re—”

“Ricardo.” He didn’t offer a hand. He just watched me.

The silence stretched.

“You weren’t at the ceremony,” I said, just to fill it.

“I don’t like weddings.”

“Neither do I.”

His mouth curved, not a smile exactly. More like he found that interesting.

“You don’t look comfortable here,” he said.

“Because I’m not.”

“Why?”

I stared at him. “Do you want the polite answer or the real one?”

“The real one.”

“This isn’t my world.”

He studied me for a moment longer, then looked away toward the garden lanterns. “It wasn’t mine either. Once.”

I frowned. “And now?”

“Now it belongs to me.”

The weight of his words sank into me.

Inside, laughter rose again. Glasses clinked.

He tilted his head. “You’ll get used to it.”

“That’s what your cousin said.”

“She’s not wrong.” His eyes returned to mine. “But you won’t like it.”

I crossed my arms. “Do you?”

A pause. His jaw tightened. “Liking it doesn’t matter.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that I felt my pulse spike. “You should go back inside. They’ll wonder where you are.”

I didn’t move. “And you?”

“I don’t answer to them.”

We stared at each other. The space between us felt heavy, charged.

“Aurora,” my mother’s voice called from the doorway.

I jerked back. Ricardo’s expression didn’t change. He only turned his head, calm, like nothing had passed between us.

“There you are,” my mother said, hurrying out. “I was looking everywhere.” She glanced at Ricardo. Her smile faltered, just slightly. “You two met.”

“Yes,” Ricardo said simply.

My mother touched my arm. “Come inside. It’s late.”

I followed her, glancing once over my shoulder. Ricardo stayed in the garden, shadowed, watching.