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.
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