Chapter 7

At 7:45 AM.

I stood in front of San Miguel Church in a white dress, damp at the hem from last night's rainwater puddles. The sky above me was bright blue, without a single cloud.

Fifty people sat inside. Maybe more. Faces I didn't recognize. Luca's family from Italy? Or my father's friends invited to witness my greatest humiliation?

My father stood at the altar, waiting for me.

My stepmother's hand pushed my back.

"Go," she whispered.

I stepped forward.

One step.

Two steps.

Each step felt like walking on broken glass. At the end of the church aisle, in front of the altar, stood a blue-eyed man in a black suit with a thin smile on his lips.

Luca Vitale.

The old priest in white robes began reading words in Spanish that I didn't hear. My eyes couldn't break away from those blue eyes. He stared at me, devoured me, carved every centimeter of my face as if I were a masterpiece he'd just purchased.

"Do you, Camila López, take Luca Vitale as your husband, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

I was silent.

The entire church fell quiet.

In the front row, my father looked down. Beside him, Sofia was crying again. My stepmother clasped her own hands so tightly.

I stared at Luca.

His blue eyes didn't blink.

"I do," I said.

Two words that came out of my mouth like a stranger's voice. Like an actress reading a script she didn't like.

The priest smiled.

"The rings."

Someone handed over a simple gold ring. Luca took it. His large, warm hand reached for my cold, trembling one. Slowly, he slid the ring onto my finger.

Then he kissed me.

Not a passionate kiss like in that apartment, but a brief kiss on the lips, formal, for show.

Applause echoed through the small church.

Congratulations, Camila.

You're officially sold.

My father approached me after the wedding ceremony ended.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you for the forced marriage, Dad," I said.

"Camila?"

"Goodbye, Dad."

I turned and walked toward the black car waiting outside. I didn't look back. I wouldn't give my father the satisfaction of seeing my tears.

Luca was already waiting by the car. He opened the door for me. I got in without looking at him.

The airport felt empty when we arrived. No check-in lines. No long security checks. A man in a black suit greeted us at the VIP entrance and escorted us straight to the tarmac.

There, a private white jet with blue stripes stood majestically under the sunlight.

I stared at it for a moment. This was my first time on a private jet. I should have felt amazed, but all I felt was nausea.

Luca walked ahead of me up the stairs. I followed, my white dress still dragging behind me. Inside the jet, everything was luxurious. White leather seats, thick carpeted floors, glossy wooden tables, and fresh flowers in every corner.

A flight attendant smiled at me.

"Good morning, Mrs. Vitale. Can I get you anything?"

Mrs. Vitale.

That name sounded foreign in my ears. I didn't want to get used to hearing it.

I sat in the corner seat, as far from Luca as possible. Outside the window, the plane began to move, leaving Mexico behind.

My tears fell.

I wiped them quickly, not wanting Luca to see, but from the corner of my eye, I knew he was watching. He sat across the aisle, not too close, not too far. Those blue eyes were fixed on me, staring with an expression I couldn't read.

"You don't have to cry," he said.

"You don't have to talk," I shot back.

He fell silent.

The plane took off. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to watch Mexico disappear beneath me.

I wrapped my arms around myself, biting my lower lip to keep from crying again. Beside me, the flight attendant offered food and drinks. I refused everything.

Luca ate calmly in his seat. Occasionally he glanced at me.

Maybe he knew I'd spit in his face if he came closer.

Eight hours later, the plane began to descend.

"We'll be landing in Rome soon," the flight attendant said softly.

Rome.

Italy.

The land I'd never visited, which would now become my prison.

After the plane stopped, Luca stood and straightened his suit. I stayed seated, not moving.

"Come on," he said.

"No."

"Camila."

"I said no."

Luca sighed. He walked toward me, took my hand, and pulled me to my feet.

"We don't have time for drama."

I pulled my hand away. "This isn't drama. This is my life that you destroyed."

Luca didn't answer. He walked to the exit, and after a few seconds, I followed him.

Outside the plane, the Italian air felt different, and on the tarmac, a row of black cars was already waiting.

Six sleek black cars with dark tinted windows, parked neatly like soldiers ready for battle. Men in black suits stood beside each car, sunglasses covering their eyes.

Luca walked toward the second car from the front. A man in a black suit opened the door for him.

I stood still.

Luca turned. "Do you want me to push you into the car?"

I walked to the car, not out of fear, but because I was too tired to fight. I got in and sat in the passenger seat. Luca sat beside me.

The back seat of the car was spacious, but it still felt cramped because his shoulder occasionally brushed against mine when the car went over uneven roads. I scooted to the edge, pressing my body against the door.

Luca noticed.

But he didn't say anything.

He just stared out the window, letting the distance between us remain.

The black cars drove away from the airport, taking me to a new home I'd never seen and a new life I never chose.

"I can't wait for our first night together," he said.