Page 43 of Of Lies and Shadows

To everyone else, this is a real wedding. A celebration.

To my children… it is real. And that? That’s something I didn’t take into account when I carved out my revenge.

I was too blinded by humiliation. By fury. By the need to break her.

My nanny. My maid. My whore.

I shake my head, my jaw tight, as I finally rise. I still can’t believe she wanted that in the contract. That she asked for it.

It made no fucking sense. Unless she really thinks that’s all she’s worth.

And somehow, that thought pisses me off more than anything else.

I finish dressing and step out of my office, only to find her already waiting in the corridor. She stands there like a sacrificial offering. Head bowed. Hands clasped. A lamb in white silk, walking willingly to the slaughter.

The sight of her should satisfy me. It should make me feel powerful. But instead, the black anger inside me coils tighter, hotter, meaner.

Because when she lifts her eyes, it isn’t me she’s looking at.

No.

She looks past me. And then she smiles. It’s barely there. Soft. Subtle. But it makes my fucking heart stumble.

And like a fool, for one pathetic second, I think it’s for me, and I almost smile back until I turn my head and see who she’s really smiling at.

Bruno…FuckingBruno.

The heat that rushes through me is instant and violent.

I hate her for it. For needing him. For choosing him even if I don’t want her.Especiallybecause I don’t want her.

I’m seconds from lashing out when she crouches, her smile brightening not for Bruno this time but for my daughter, who comes barreling into her arms with all the trust and love in the world.

And despite everything I’ve done and everything she has done, I have to admit: It hasn’t dimmed her love for the children or theirs for her.

That’s the part I can’t fucking shake, no matter how hard I try.

“You’re so beautiful, my mermaid!” Lucia shouts, buzzing with excitement.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Francesca murmurs, adjusting the delicate crown on Lucia’s head.

Francesca smiles, soft and sad, brushing a stray curl from my little girl’s face. “Where’s your brother?”

Lucia points toward the dining hall, now laughably transformed into a wedding venue with white tablecloths and wilting centerpieces that can't disguise the staleness in the air.

“Okay,” Francesca says, rising. “Lead the way.”

The ceremony begins without fanfare.

I’m already standing at the makeshift altar when she walks in, her hand holding Lucia’s before letting go. She doesn't look at me once. Her steps are steady, but her gaze is distant, with hollow eyes and an unreadable expression. She's here, but not really. A ghost in white silk.

Thereare rings. There are vows.

And I stand in my own home, dressed like a groom, vowing things I don’t believe to a woman I don’t trust.

Not even the priest, bought and discreet, can inject life into this farce.

She recites the words with robotic precision, her voice calm, too calm.

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