Chapter 3

The courtyard beyond the villa gates was lined with black SUVs, each one marked with the Moretti family crest. Armed guards in tailored suits stood at every entrance, their eyes scanning the crowd even during celebration.

My chest tightened. I reached out and grabbed Luca's wrist before he could step out of the car.

"What are you doing?"

He pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Within seconds, he was already giving instructions.

"Send Gabriella over. Now."

Gabriella was Isabella's personal stylist, the woman who had spent two hours this morning perfecting every detail of her look.

Luca ended the call and glanced back at Isabella, who sat quietly in the seat behind us, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Your sister looks terrible. She'll ruin every photograph." He said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "Today is your day, Isabella. Everyone around you should look perfect."

What a convenient excuse.

Isabella said nothing. She just tilted her head slightly and gave a small, graceful nod.

But when her eyes met mine, I saw the look in her eyes clearly. She had won again.

Gabriella arrived within minutes, her makeup kit already open. She worked quickly, pulling pins from my ruined hairstyle and starting over from scratch.

The lead car sat completely still. Behind us, the entire motorcade waited.

One of the older coordinators rushed forward from the second car, his face tight with panic.

"Don Moretti, if we don't leave now, we'll miss the Father's scheduled window. He has another ceremony across town in ninety minutes."

Voices began rising from the cars behind us.

"What's the delay? Did something happen?"

"If there's an issue, we should move the other cars forward. We can't hold up the entire family."

A driver in the opposite lane leaned on his horn, shouting something crude out his window about entitled brides and blocked roads.

Shame flashed across my face. My fingers twisted into the fabric of my dress so hard I thought the seams might split.

This wedding—the one I had believed mattered—meant nothing to Luca.

Not compared to a single complaint from Isabella.

My mother appeared at the edge of the driveway, her expression sharp and ready to unleash. But then her eyes flicked toward Isabella in the backseat, and her mouth closed.

She turned to Gabriella instead.

"Hurry up. What's taking so long?"

Forty minutes later, the motorcade finally began to move.

I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. In the rearview mirror, I saw Isabella lean her head gently against Luca's shoulder.

Today, wearing my name and my identity, she could be close to him openly. In front of everyone without hiding.

Something brushed against the back of my hand where it rested near the gearshift.

I glanced down. It was Luca's fingers.

He was smiling at me in the mirror.

My stomach turned.

How many times had they done this? How many small touches had I seen and ignored, thinking they were innocent? How long had they been this comfortable with each other while I stayed blind?

The car pulled up to the venue twenty minutes later. Luca stepped out first and extended his hand to Isabella, carefully lifting the train of her gown as she emerged.

The photographer was already there, camera raised, capturing every delicate moment.

The coordinator clapped his hands, directing everyone toward the stone steps.

"We're moving to the family portrait now. Immediate family and close associates, please gather at the center."

Luca and Isabella took their place in the center. My parents moved immediately to flank Isabella on either side. Luca's parents stood beside him, their faces glowing with pride.

I was guided to the far edge of the group, barely within the frame.

"Everyone ready? On three. One, two, three!"

The moment the shutter clicked, a series of sharp cracks split the air.

Gunfire.

A traditional salute, rifles firing into the sky in celebration.

The sound was deafening. My vision blurred. My ears filled with a high-pitched ringing that drowned out everything else.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands flying up to cover my ears, but it didn't help.

When I was seven, Isabella had stolen a necklace our grandmother had given me. When I tried to take it back, she screamed until our parents came running.

They didn't ask what happened. They just locked me outside in the courtyard. In the middle of winter.

"Selfish girl. You can stay out here until you learn to share."

"You're older. You should know better than to upset your sister."

"You two look identical, but somehow you're nothing like your sister."

It was a freezing night. Snow had started to fall. I banged on the door until my hands went numb.

Then the gunshots started.

A rival family had come to the estate. They attacked without warning. Bullets tore through the gates. I heard shouting, screaming and glass shattering.

I pressed myself against the wall, too terrified to move.

One of the attackers collapsed near me, blood pooling beneath him on the white snow.

I couldn't stop staring. I couldn't breathe or scream.

When it was over, my parents finally opened the door. They pulled me inside without a word. My nails were broken and bleeding from clawing at the wood and my hands were black with frostbite.

After that night, I couldn't handle the sound of gunfire. Even fireworks made my chest seize up and my vision go dark.

I had told Luca this. I had written it into the wedding plans—no gunfire, no salutes, no loud surprises.

He had agreed.

And now, as my hands trembled and my ears rang, Luca appeared beside me. He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear.

"Beautiful, wasn't it? I added it back in as a surprise. Camilla told me she's terrified of gunshots. But you said you loved it, so I made sure to include it just for you. " His voice was low, almost playful. "You should be thanking me."

I dug my nails into my palms to stop my hands from shaking. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, and forced myself to smile.

"It was perfect."

Across the courtyard, the photographer projected the group portrait onto a massive screen for everyone to see.

I searched for the image for myself.

There—at the very edge. So far out that only my shoulder and part of my arm had made it into the frame. My face was cut off entirely.

I stared at the screen, and my heart felt heavy and numb.

Maybe that was the point.

In this wedding, I was never supposed to exist at all.