Page 45 of Charming Villain

Chapter26

Gianna

Standing in the center of the bridal suite, I stare at my reflection in a colossal mirror. Gilded scrollwork frames the reflective surface, adding a theatrical elegance I can’t quite appreciate. It reminds me of my father’s house. The lights overhead are turned low to soften every angle, but there’s no hiding the tension hollowing out my cheeks and dulling the shine in my eyes. A woman in white lace and tulle stares back at me, and I have to remind myself that she’s me.

All around me, the trappings of a perfect wedding day sprawl across plush chairs and polished tables: ribbons in ivory and gold, a half-open box of glossy shoes, and a cascade of pale pink roses. Conversation seeps in from the corridor—bridesmaids that I wasn’t allowed to choose, staff that I’ve never met, and distant relatives I can barely remember.

A part of me wants to be impressed by the grandeur of Dante Terlizzi’s estate. He has centuries-old oil paintings, plush carpets, chandeliers dripping with crystal teardrops. A part of me aches with the knowledge that it’s all window dressing for a life I don’t really want. I’m a prop in this lifestyle, set on a stage for the Terlizzi and Lucatello families to applaud and remark upon.

I finger the delicate pearls decorating the bodice of my dress, their pale shimmer as deceptive as any fairy tale. They say pearls symbolize tears. I guess that’s fitting.

Across the room, an omelet station for the bridal party catches my attention when the smell of eggs and cheese wafts in my direction. The aroma hits my nose with surprising force and my stomach rebels. I grip the vanity, ignoring the watery trembling in my knees. If I have to smell hot butter or sizzling onions for one more minute, I might actually vomit in the middle of this pristine suite. And that is the last thing I can afford right now.

A sharp pain tugs at my lower belly, a subtle reminder of how late my period is. Could it be stress? That would be the most logical explanation—my life has been turned upside down in a matter of months. This wedding. These families. Luciano.

For one terrifying second, I let myself consider that I’m carrying his child. The mere thought intensifies the nausea, and I press a hand to my abdomen. If I am pregnant, I can’t stay. Nor can I leave as easily. Both options are too big and impossible to digest. My vision swims with half-formed images of me cradling a baby while Luciano hovers protectively. Another swirl of images: that same baby learning all the darkness of this world, my world, his father’s world.

I shake off the thought, letting out a shaky breath that barely moves the stale air around me. Memories of my father calling me a commodity, a piece of merchandise to be moved and leveraged, flit through my mind. Giovanni Lucatello is somewhere in the estate right now—lurking in the groom’s wing or possibly out in the gardens. He’s probably complaining that this entire fiasco is humiliating. He hates that Saverio forced his hand in giving me away. But it’s not about me; he never cared about me. If he found out I was pregnant, he’d see it as another chess move. He’d consider how to use it to his advantage instead of asking me how I’m feeling.

A small knock sounds on the door. “Gianna? Everything okay in there?” Christine’s voice, my cousin. If I were in a better place, I’d be grateful for her concern. But I can’t let anyone see the expression on my face right now, so I swallow the lump in my throat and muster a tight smile.

“I’m fine,” I call back. “I just need a minute.”

A pause, and then Christine’s footsteps recede. The door remains closed. My gaze drifts back to the mirror. The reflection is heartbreakingly beautiful: the lace bodice hugging my torso, the flared skirt of delicate tulle, a train that could sweep across a cathedral floor. The entire ensemble is worth more money than some people see in a lifetime. The matching veil sits on a velvet-cushioned chair, trimmed in the same lace that lines the dress. It should be every bride’s dream. And once upon a time, maybe I would’ve wanted a wedding this lavish.

I brush my fingertips over the delicate beadwork along my waist, eyes blurring with tears I refuse to shed. All my life, I clung to the hope of a love story. I used to imagine walking down an aisle with a radiant smile and not an ounce of fear or regret in the room. Instead, I stand here with shaky knees and an ache in my heart that keeps whispering:You’re running out of time. You can’t stay here. You have to go.

Two weeks ago, I finally decided that I’d leave. But it’s taken every ounce of willpower to keep pretending in the meantime. Pretending to enjoy the final fittings, pretending to fuss over floral arrangements as if I cared. Pretending to be excited whenever someone congratulates me on “winning the Terlizzi lottery.” Because how else am I supposed to act?

My reflection wavers with the tears I fight to hold back. Because part of me wants to stay. Part of me imagines a scenario where the gentle side of Luciano wins out, where the nights he cradled me and the mornings he stroked my hair are real. He can be so tender it tears me apart. It reminds me of how I want to be loved. The memory of his voice murmuring, “I want to keep you safe,” is carved into my ribs, and it makes it hard to breathe.

But then I remember the torment in his eyes when he punished me, the violence behind his kisses when he was lost in his own darkness. The possibility that I might be pregnant with his child compounds the fear. Is this the environment I want to raise a baby in? Is this the father I want for my child, a father who swerves wildly between caring devotion and punishing obsession?

A delicate rap on the doorframe pulls me out of my spiral. One of the stylists pokes her head in, carrying a tray with a few hair accessories—each encrusted with crystals, shimmering in the overhead lights. “Miss Lucatello? I have the final hairpieces if you’re ready.”

I force a tight smile, motioning her to place them on the vanity. “Thank you,” I say, my voice calm despite the storm raging inside me. She lingers a moment, then quietly leaves and shuts the door behind her.

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. I can hear the faint clink of cutlery from the corridor—someone sampling canapés or champagne, maybe. The staff is in full wedding mode, and time is slipping through my fingers. I stare at the mirror again, watching a single tear drip down my cheek, forging a path through carefully applied makeup. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, ignoring the streak it leaves behind.

Everything in me trembles as I recall his kisses. How, for a fraction of a second, I dared to think we could build something real. And maybe we could have if the darkness in him didn’t run so deep, if the memory of my father didn’t overshadow our every interaction, if the entire structure of our world wasn’t built on violence and deals.

I take a slow, deep breath, letting my gaze wander the room. The lace throw pillows, the plush carpet, the drapes of expensive silk—none of it is mine. I never truly belonged here, wearing a $100,000 dress that feels more like a costume than for the role I play.

With trembling fingers, I begin undoing the row of pearl buttons along my spine, each pop of thread untying me from this half-lie I’ve lived for weeks. It’s not easy—my vision blurs, and my hands slip more than once—but I persist, working from the top down until the fabric slackens around my ribs. The weight of the dress slides down, baring my shoulders, then my back, then the rest of me as it pools around my ankles in a sea of white.

I step out of it carefully, stumbling a bit as the train tangles around my feet. When I right myself, I stand in just my bridal lingerie—delicate, lacy underthings meant to make me feel sexy and powerful. Instead, it leaves me feeling vulnerable. The mirror no longer shows a bride but a woman with tear-bright eyes and faint bruises on her skin from nights spent with a man torn between desire and violence. This is who I am: battered, unsure, but still breathing. Still alive enough to say no. Still able to forge my own path.

I run my palms over the curve of my belly and hips, noticing how I cringe at the uncertain edges of my body. Am I pregnant? The question dances around my thoughts like a constant refrain. If yes, if no… it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stay. Not anymore. Not when even a fraction of me is screaming for an exit, for a life unshackled by mafia feuds and arranged marriages. That’s the life I was tricked into the night I ran from my father to find freedom, only to land in the arms of the one man who could ravage me more thoroughly than Giovanni ever could.

I exhale shakily, forcing my reflection to hold my gaze. My eyes are puffy, my lips quiver. A tear escapes despite my effort to remain stoic. I watch it trace a path down my cheek, then drip onto the lace bra I’m wearing. This is the last time I’ll cry here. I won’t stand at that altar and let the entire city watch me bind myself to someone who might love me or might break me.He can’t keep me if I leave now. He can’t drag me back if I vanish before the vows are said.

The doorknob rattles faintly, and a burst of muffled laughter seeps in. Probably a bridesmaid returning with more lipsticks or a final trim for the hem. My pulse flutters. I hurry to scoop the dress from the floor and drape it over a chair, discreetly pushing a small stool in front of it as though it’s just waiting there, ready to be stepped back into. Maybe they’ll think I’m in the restroom or having a quiet moment to myself. I pray they won’t suspect the truth.

I glance at the mirror one final time, a second tear slipping down my cheek. The reflection stares back with defiance and heartbreak, a broken vow that never truly had a chance to be fulfilled.I’m sorry, Luciano. I’m sorry for not letting you try and fix me, for not letting you try and fix us. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk losing myself or exposing a child to this lifestyle.

I take a moment to steady my breathing; then, I nod at my reflection. It is an almost imperceptible movement that steels my resolve. I’m taking my life into my own hands, even if I have to slip out a back stairwell in my underwear or hail a ride in full bridal regalia. Because staying here would only end with me deeper in chains and possibly pregnant with a child that I’d be bringing into a war zone of conflicting loyalties.

I force one last slow, deliberate inhale.You can do this,I tell myself.You have to.Because even if a part of me loves the potential in Luciano, I’m more afraid of his reality. And if I have to choose between being devoured by his complicated, tortured love or forging my own path, I owe it to myself to choose me.

---