Friday came too quickly.
Four days. Just four days since I'd woken up handcuffed to a stranger, and now I was standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing a wedding dress that cost more than a car.
"You look stunning," my mother said behind me, adjusting her French lace veil. Her eyes were welling up, but I couldn't tell if it was from joy or sadness.
The dress was perfect, I had to admit. Dante had hired a private designer who worked day and night to create something custom-made. Ivory satin with delicate pearl embroidery, a perfect fit that accentuated without overdoing it, long sleeves of sheer lace. Elegant. Classic. Exactly the kind of dress I would have chosen.
If this were a royal wedding.
"Mom," I began, my voice husky, "are you sure this is right? I mean, four days... isn't that too fast?"
Beatriz Torres met my eyes in the mirror. For a moment, I saw vulnerability there, even fear. But then the mask returned—the mask of the successful businessman's wife, always composed, always in control.
"Love doesn't follow schedules, darling." She said the words she'd clearly rehearsed. "And Dante is... he's a good man. I see the way he looks at you."
"Mom..."
"Besides," she continued adjusting a pearl in my hair, tied in an elaborate low bun, "he saved your father. Saved the company. That counts for something."
So that was it. Gratitude disguised as approval. My mother wasn't happy with this marriage—she was relieved by the financial rescue.
I couldn't blame her. Fifty million dollars bought a lot of peace of mind.
"It's time," a soft voice announced from the doorway. It was Helena, the event planner Dante had hired. She had transformed the Moretti estate's private chapel into something out of a magazine in record time. "The guests are all seated."
My stomach churned. Guests. Small and intimate, Dante had promised. But "small and intimate" for a billionaire meant fifty people—family, select business associates, a few friends. Everyone came to witness the whirlwind wedding of the year.
No one knew it was a sham.
"Come on, princess." My mother took my bouquet—white roses and hydrangeas—and placed it in my trembling hands. "Your father is waiting to walk you down the aisle."
Altar. The word hit me like a bullet. This was really happening.
We left the dressing room and walked down the marble hallway of the Moretti mansion. The estate was obscenely large—twenty bedrooms, gardens that stretched for acres, a private chapel that was probably more beautiful than most churches.
I was getting married. For real. Legally.
To a man I barely knew.
We arrived at the chapel's double wooden doors. My father stood there, impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo. He had been released from the hospital two days ago, and though he still looked tired, his eyes had that determined glint back.
"My God," he whispered when he saw me. "You look... you are the most beautiful bride I've ever seen."
Tears threatened to fall, ruining the perfectly applied makeup. "Dad, I..."
"Listen." He took my hands, careful not to crumple the bouquet. "I know this is happening fast. Too fast, maybe. But Isabella, if at any point you want to stop this, just say the word. We'll give you your money back. We'll find another solution. You don't have to do this."
Emotion clogged my throat. He was giving me a way out. Even now, even after everything.
"I want to do this," I lied, because I had no choice. Not really. "I... I think I can be happy with him. Eventually."
I wasn't completely lying. Dante was... complicated. Calculated, yes. But he'd also been kind in his own way. Protective. And those rare moments when the mask slipped, when he let his vulnerability show...
Maybe. Just maybe.
"Then let's do this right." My father offered his arm. "Ready?"
No. I would never be ready.
"Yes," I lied again.
The doors opened, and the Wedding March began to play. The chapel was small but stunning—stained glass windows cast patterns of colored light over the dark wooden pews. White candles covered every surface. Elaborate floral arrangements created a dreamlike catwalk.
And at the end of that catwalk, beneath an arch covered in white roses, stood Dante.
My heart forgot to beat.
He looked... devastating. His black tuxedo was tailored, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His dark hair was perfectly slicked back. And those green eyes found me through the veil, locking with an intensity that made my knees tremble.
He wasn't smiling. He was completely serious, watching my every step as if he were the only person in the room.
As if it meant something.
I began walking, my arm linked through my father's. Each step felt heavy, charged with meaning. Faces turned to watch me—some curious, some judgmental, some genuinely happy.
I recognized a few. My father's business associates. Aunt Margareth with her ridiculous hat. Distant cousins I hadn't seen in years.
And then, three rows back, I saw a face that made my blood run cold.
Ricardo.
My ex-fiancé sat there, in a gray suit, with Melissa beside him. She wore a red dress—completely inappropriate for a wedding—and had a satisfied smile on her face.
Why the hell were they here?
My step faltered, and my father squeezed my arm in support. "Ignore them," he whispered. "Focus forward."
I forced my eyes back to Dante. He'd seen Ricardo too—I saw his jaw tighten, those green eyes darkening dangerously. But when our gazes connected again, there was something else there. A silent promise.
I'll protect you. Trust me.
Somehow, I made it to the altar. My father placed my hand in Dante's, the gesture formal and ancient. Dante received it as if it were something precious, his fingers intertwining with mine with comforting firmness.
"Take care of her," my father said quietly but firmly.
"With my life," Dante replied, and it sounded like an oath.
My father kissed my cheek and went to sit next to my mother in the front row. And then it was just the two of us—Dante and I, under the arch of roses, with the priest waiting patiently.
Father Julio was a kind, elderly man who had known the Moretti family for decades. He smiled warmly as he opened the prayer book.
"Beloved," his voice echoed through the chapel, "we are gathered today to witness the union of Dante Alessandro Moretti and Isabella Sofia Torres in holy matrimony."
The familiar words washed over me, but they felt distant, unreal. As if I were watching this happen to someone else. "Marriage should not be entered into lightly or hastily," the priest continued, "but reverently, deliberately, and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted."
Hastily. The word echoed in my head. Four days. Four days since we met. Well, we met again.
"Dante," the priest turned to him, "do you take Isabella as your lawful wedded wife, to have and to protect her, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, loving and respecting her until death do you part?"
Dante held my gaze. He didn't look away for a second.
"Yes, I do."
His voice was firm, unwavering. As if he truly believed it.
"Isabella," the priest turned to me, and my heart pounded so hard I was sure everyone could hear it, "do you take Dante as your lawful wedded husband, to have and to protect him, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, loving and respecting him until death do you part?"
The chapel fell silent. Waiting. All eyes on me.
I looked at Dante. Really looked. I tried to see beyond the mask, beyond the performance. Who was he really? The calculating billionaire? The vulnerable man who saved my family? Both?
"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I do."
Something flashed in Dante's eyes. Relief? Satisfaction? Triumph? It passed too quickly to identify.
"The rings, please," the priest asked.
A little boy I didn't recognize—probably the son of some business partner—came running with a large white pillow. On it were two white gold bands studded with tiny diamonds. Simple but absurdly expensive, I'm sure.
Dante took one and held my left hand. His fingers were warm, firm, surprisingly gentle.
"Isabella," he said, and there was something in his voice now, something deeper, "with this ring, I wed you. I promise to be your companion, your protector, your partner in all things." He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly. "This I swear."
My hands trembled as I took the ring from him. It was wider, more masculine, but with the same delicate diamond pattern.
"Dante"—my voice trembled—"with this ring, I wed you. I promise to be your companion, your..." I choked on the words. I couldn't do this. I couldn't swear falsely in a church.
But then I felt his hand squeeze mine, encouraging. And I realized—he knew. He knew how hard this was for me. And he was telling me it was okay.
"I promise to try," I finished softly, deviating from the traditional script. "This I swear."
The honesty seemed more important than the promise itself.
I slipped the ring onto his finger, and it felt so final, so real.
"By the power granted to me," the priest said with a smile, "I pronounce you husband and wife." He looked at Dante. "You may kiss the bride."
My heart stopped.
The kiss. Of course there would be a kiss. How had I not thought of the kiss?
Dante took a step closer, filling the space between us. His hand came up to touch my face, his fingers gliding across my cheek with a tenderness I hadn't expected. He leaned in, his eyes holding mine until the last second.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, so softly only I heard. "I'll make this as brief as possible."
Before I could respond, his lips touched mine.
And the world exploded.
It wasn't a chaste, church-appropriate kiss. It wasn't a performance for the cameras. It was... real. Hot, deep, consuming. His lips moved against mine with a skill that made my knees weak. His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss.
I forgot where I was. I forgot this was fake. I forgot everything except the feel of his lips, the taste of him, the heat of his body against mine.
When he finally pulled away, I was breathless, shaking, completely disoriented. He didn't look much better. There was surprise in his eyes, as if the kiss had affected him as much as it had me.
"I..." I began.
"Yes," he agreed, looking as confused as I felt.
The chapel erupted in applause, breaking the moment. Dante blinked, his mask slipping back into place. He smiled—that charming, practiced smile—and intertwined our fingers.
"May I present to you," the priest announced cheerfully, "Mr. and Mrs. Moretti!"
Mrs. Moretti. The name sounded strange. Wrong. Like an ill-fitting garment.
Dante led me down the chapel aisle, and everyone stood, applauding, throwing rose petals. I smiled, waved, played the happy bride.
But when we passed the row where Ricardo and Melissa were sitting, I couldn't help but look.
Ricardo stared at me with pure hatred. Melissa just smiled that venomous smile. And then, so softly I almost didn't hear, Ricardo whispered,
"This isn't over, Isabella. Not even close."
A chill ran down my spine. But before I could process the threat, Dante pulled me closer, his arm possessively around my waist.
"Ignore him," he murmured in my ear. "He can't hurt you now. You're mine."
The word should have angered me. It should have made me feel owned.
But strangely, it made me feel... safe.
We walked out of the chapel into the garden where the reception was set up. More flowers, elegantly decorated tables, a Dance floor under fairy lights. Everything perfect, like a fairy tale.
A fake fairy tale.
"Smile," Dante whispered as photographers approached. "We just got married. You should be radiant."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder." But there was a hint of humor in his voice now.
And then, surprisingly, he picked me up, making me squeal in surprise. The cameras exploded in flashes as he spun me around, laughing—a genuine sound I'd never heard him make before.
"Dante!" I protested, but I was laughing too, unable to help it.
"Better," he murmured, setting me back down but keeping his arms around me. "Now you look like a happy bride."
And as I stared into his green eyes, feeling the warmth of his body, remembering the kiss that still made my lips tingle...
I thought that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't fully reading.
And that scared me more than anything else.