Chapter One: The Bride in a Dress Meant for Her Sister

Lucy Benjamin stood at the edge of the grand marble aisle, her hands trembling around the bouquet of white peonies her sister’s favorite, not hers. A gilded chandelier glittered above, raining light over the hushed guests who turned their heads in quiet confusion. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew: she wasn't supposed to be the bride.

Her heart thundered in her chest like a prisoner begging for release. The cathedral in Florence, ancient and cold, smelled faintly of incense and fading roses. It was beautiful. Imposing. Hollow.

She clutched the lace of the dress tighter. It didn't fit perfectly; it had been altered last minute. Because she wasn't supposed to wear it. Her stepsister, Serena, had vanished the night before, leaving nothing but a scribbled note and a legacy of cowardice.

"Lucy, go," John whispered from behind. His voice was gentle, but firm, like a push wrapped in a hug. Her stepbrother, the only one who seemed to care. The only one who didn't treat her like a pawn.

Her legs moved, but she felt detached from them, as if she were drifting down the aisle rather than walking. Each step echoed in her skull. The silence in the cathedral was deafening, yet beneath it buzzed a thousand unspoken things: betrayal, scandal, fear.

And then there was him.

Gabriel Fernandez stood at the altar like a carved statue tall, broad-shouldered, devastating in a black tailored suit. His expression was unreadable, jaw clenched, dark eyes burning holes through her as she approached. He looked every inch the ruthless billionaire the world whispered about.

He did not smile. He did not reach for her hand.

When their eyes met, Lucy nearly stumbled. Because there was something in his stare beyond fury—something colder. Like he'd been expecting her. Like he hated her already.

The priest began speaking. Words blurred. Vows whispered past like wind.

Gabriel's voice was gravel when he spoke. "I do."

Lucy felt her throat dry. Her lips moved, but for a heartbeat, no sound emerged.

Then she whispered, "I do," and it was done.

No kiss. No applause.

Only silence.

The car ride was more of a burial than a celebration. The inside of the limousine felt claustrophobic, like the air was pressing in, demanding she speak.

She didn’t.

Neither did he.

Gabriel sat with one leg crossed, one arm resting along the back of the seat. His gaze was out the window, jaw tight. He hadn't looked at her once since they'd left the cathedral.

Lucy stared at her hands. They were shaking.

"You're quieter than I expected," he said suddenly, voice low and sharp.

She flinched. "I'm not sure what to say."

"That’s new. The Benjamins always have something to say when they want something."

Her head snapped up. "You think I wanted this?"

Finally, he looked at her. Not at her face, but through it, like he was searching for lies hidden in her skin.

"Didn't you?" he said. "Your sister runs off, and you conveniently step in. A last-minute bride to seal the deal your family begged me for. How noble."

Her chest tightened. "I didn't ask to be here."

"But you stayed."

She turned her face away, fighting the sting behind her eyes. "Because if I didn’t, my family would've lost everything."

Gabriel let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "So it’s blackmail now. How fitting."

Lucy looked back at him. "What did they do to you? What did I do to you, that you hate me this much?"

He didn’t answer. Only turned back to the window, his reflection fractured by city lights.

The villa was breathtaking all sharp stone and sweeping gardens, high archways and golden lamplight. She should have felt awe.

She felt trapped.

As soon as they entered the master bedroom a palace in itself Gabriel gestured to the bed.

"You can sleep here. I'll have the guest room made up."

She blinked. "Wait. You're not staying here?"

His jaw flexed. "You thought this was a real marriage?"

Lucy bit her lip. "I don't know what I thought."

"You thought wrong."

And with that, he turned and walked out.

She stood alone in the silence, surrounded by luxury, drowning in it.

Lucy didn't sleep.

She wandered the halls sometime after midnight, wrapped in a robe, barefoot on marble floors. The villa was quiet, almost mournful.

She found herself in a study dark wood, a fireplace that crackled softly, shelves full of books no one seemed to read. She sank into a chair and pulled a blanket over herself. For a moment, she let herself cry. Silently, bitterly. Not just for the marriage, but for the years of being second-best. For always being the one they sacrificed.

Behind her, a soft voice spoke. "Comfortable?"

She startled and turned. Gabriel stood in the doorway, unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled, watching her.

She wiped her cheeks. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude."

He stepped inside slowly, but didn’t sit. "You cry quietly."

"Is that a problem too?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stared at the fire. "I never wanted a wife. Especially not one who looks at me like I might hit her."

Her breath caught. "I never said that."

"You didn’t have to."

Silence stretched.

Then, softly: "What did they tell you about me, Lucy?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "That you were dangerous. That you ruined people without blinking. That Serena begged not to marry you."

He gave a dry smile, the kind that hides old wounds. "And yet, here you are."

She looked away.

"Maybe I’m not the villain, Lucy," he said, voice lower now. "Maybe I was just easier to blame."

And then he was gone.

Leaving her to wonder if the silence between them wasn't just grief but something waiting to be heard.