Chapter Eighteen

The mansion was chaos.

People in suits and dresses buzzed through the hallways like bees in a hive, barking orders and throwing swatches of fabric in the air. The scent of fresh roses—hundreds of them—mixed with the tang of heated arguments, making the air thick and exhausting. I hadn’t even had breakfast yet.

“No, no, no! The centerpieces go on the mirrored stands, not the crystal ones!” I heard someone scream from the grand ballroom.

I was already regretting every single choice we’d made.

“I didn’t pick the crystal stands,” I mumbled under my breath, arms folded as I stood in the middle of the grand hallway, surrounded by fabric samples and clipboard-wielding coordinators.

“You didn’t not pick them either,” Jillian muttered beside me, his voice low and a little amused. He looked down at his phone again, scrolling, not even pretending to be helpful.

“You’re not even paying attention,” I said sharply.

His head tilted slightly. “To chaos? No thanks.”

“This is our wedding, Jillian.”

“And I agreed to be in it. That’s enough involvement for now.”

I shot him a glare, and he finally looked up from his phone, offering the faintest of smirks before turning to the closest planner. “Give her whatever she wants.”

“That’s not the point!” I exclaimed, causing two florists to look up from their bickering. “I’m not just trying to get what I want. I’m trying to get us something that looks and feels like us. This whole thing—” I gestured toward the madness, “—doesn’t even feel real.”

Jillian’s jaw twitched slightly, a sign I was finally hitting a nerve. “It’s just a wedding, Christy.”

“No, it’s not just a wedding!” I nearly shouted. “It’s the moment where I’m forced to stand in front of hundreds of people and pretend like this marriage is something we both want!”

The air between us thickened.

Jillian pocketed his phone and took a step closer. “You’re not forced to do anything.”

“You think I chose this?” My voice cracked slightly. “You think I woke up dreaming of marrying a mafia heir with ice for a heart?”

He blinked, and for a split second, I thought I saw something behind his eyes—hurt, maybe. But it was gone so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.

“Then leave,” he said simply.

I sucked in a breath. “You would love that, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” he said, voice quiet now, almost tired. “But don’t stand here and act like you’re the only one with a weight on their back.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, I turned away.

The silence stretched between us as I watched the decorators bustle around the ballroom. A golden chandelier had just been installed, its crystals catching the light like frozen fire. The band did a soundcheck in the corner, and the clinking of champagne glasses echoed faintly.

“Christy!” a voice shouted from down the hallway. One of the planners came jogging over. “We need you to approve the place cards. And the pastry chef wants final confirmation on the cake flavor—vanilla hazelnut or red velvet?”

“I—I don’t care,” I said, running a hand through my hair.

“You said you wanted—”

“Just choose something!” I snapped. The planner flinched, nodded, and scurried away.

Jillian remained quiet beside me, and that somehow made it worse. I would have preferred a snide remark or another cold insult.

Instead, he said, “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, turning sharply.

“Getting air.”

“You do that a lot.”

“And you shout a lot.”

Before I could bite back, he disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing alone in a storm of silk, roses, and chaos.

—

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I saw him again. I’d finally retreated to the library, seeking some kind of peace. I curled up on the plush green velvet armchair by the window, trying to read, but my eyes kept drifting to the empty doorway.

Jillian was nowhere to be found.

I told myself I didn’t care. That I didn’t need him to be here. But as the minutes dragged on and the sun began to sink, casting long golden shadows across the library floor, I couldn’t help the anxiety that twisted in my stomach.

Then I heard it—the sound of heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

And laughter.

I stood slowly.

The laughter grew louder as it approached, and then the door to the library opened—and she walked in.

Alyssa Martins.

My stomach turned.

She looked radiant, of course. Her fiery red hair was twisted into an elegant bun, and her black jumpsuit hugged her body in all the right ways. She walked in as though she owned the mansion.

And right behind her, was Jillian.

His eyes landed on me for a brief second. No surprise. No guilt. Just cold indifference.

“Oh,” Alyssa said sweetly, as if just noticing me. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“It’s a library,” I said flatly. “People read here.”

Jillian remained silent.

“I came to help,” Alyssa said, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “Wedding prep. Joseph asked me to.”

I didn’t believe that for a second.

“Oh, how kind of you,” I said through clenched teeth.

Alyssa stepped closer to Jillian, her hand grazing his arm. “You look exhausted, Jilly.”

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, but made no move to remove her hand.

I hated how my heart sank. How my eyes searched his face for some kind of reaction—any sign of resistance—but there was nothing.

“I should go,” I said, moving toward the door.

But just as I reached it, Alyssa’s voice cut through the air. “You know, it’s funny. You two are getting married and yet… you don’t seem very married.”

I turned slowly.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

Alyssa smiled, cruel and condescending. “Only that love shows. And I’m just not seeing it.”

“You don’t have to see it,” I said. “It’s none of your business.”

She turned to Jillian then, her voice softening like a weapon being sheathed. “Don’t you miss how it used to be?”

Jillian didn’t answer.

But then she stepped in front of him, tilted her face up—and kissed him.

It was slow. Intimate.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My heart slammed against my ribcage like it was trying to escape.

When she pulled away, Jillian finally turned his head—toward me.

I saw the instant realization on his face, the flicker of something. Regret? Shame?

Too late.

“You son of a—” I started, but the words choked halfway out of my throat.

“Christy—”

“You let her kiss you.”

“I didn’t kiss her back.”

“Oh, that makes it better?” I laughed bitterly. “Are you seriously going to pull that card?”

“It’s not what you think—”

“No,” I said, holding up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. You stood there, you let it happen. And you looked at me like I was the problem.”

“She kissed me,” Jillian said, his voice rising now. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“But you didn’t stop it.”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Alyssa stood smugly to the side, arms folded, watching the scene unfold like she’d written the script herself.

“I thought maybe—maybe—there was something real between us,” I whispered. “I let myself hope. Stupid, right?”

Jillian stepped forward, but I backed away.

“I don’t want to be near you right now.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“No,” I said firmly, “I’m reacting exactly the right amount.”

Then I turned and walked away, my vision swimming and my throat tight.

This was supposed to be my wedding.

My moment.

But it felt like everything was crashing before it even began.

And deep down, I knew this wasn’t over.

Not with Alyssa still in the picture.

Not with Jillian still so distant.

Not with my heart so shattered.