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Why didn’t Carlo just tell me I was the one he was marrying? And why did he marry me anyway? Why me? Who am I?
I’m a nobody. And he’s a somebody. I don’t know who he is, not really, but he’s someone that I’m not in the same league with. And what did my stepbrother know about all this?
John’s not here, so maybe he didn’t know a thing. “Do you know if John’s on his way?”
Carlo shakes his head as he stops us in front of the wedding cake I ordered. “I’ve been busy, Isabella, so I haven’t talked to him. I thought he was coming. But I’m sure he has a good reason for missing our wedding.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why he would miss our wedding, but I don’t know a lot of things right now. “So, we’re cutting the cake now?”
“You planned this whole wedding,” he says as he looks at me with a smile in his dark eyes. “I would think you would be acutely aware of what happens from here, baby.”
“Baby,” I echo and shake my head. “This is so weird.”
“We’ll talk later,” he whispers, then looks up at our guests. “Are you guys ready for some cake?”
Cheering, our guests flock to watch us cut the cake. Carlo takes the knife and hands it to me. We cut the first slice together. Feeling him behind me this way feels familiar, and a scene comes to mind—the two of us naked, me on my knees, shoulders against the floor of this very ballroom, and him behind me, penetrating me with his enormous cock. I blush as heat surges through me.
My God, what all did I do?
The next thing I know, Carlo is feeding me a piece of cake. I feed him next, and everyone cheers. When he kisses me, we both have cake in our mouths, and it’s a pretty delicious kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck to keep him close—I don’t want the kiss to end.
Wrenching his mouth from mine, he wipes some frosting off my lips and puts it into his mouth before kissing the tip of my nose, making our wedding guests cheer some more.
Putting his arms around me, he leans in close and says softly, “We’re going to have a happy marriage, baby.”
Staring into his eyes and having no idea why I’m agreeing with him, I say, “Me too, babe,” and then kiss him again.
Kissing him feels right. It feels like something we have been doing forever. Being in his arms feels right. Everything about this feels right.
But it can’t be right.
Being forced to marry someone isn’t right. Being drugged so you don’t fight while being involuntarily married isn’t right. Nothing about this is right.
So why does it feel right?
The next thing I know, Carlo takes my hand and leads me to a table full of presents so we can begin opening the mountain of them. “Present time, baby.”
I don’t know what to say. I have so many questions, but I can’t ask any of them right now. You just don’t go asking your new husband a lot of questions about how something like this happened in front of wedding guests.
A few young girls line up to hand out the presents. I’m given one to open, and another is given to Carlo. One of the girls takes the card from the gift I’m unwrapping and announces to the guests, “This is from Mr. and Mrs. Dante Vietti.” She places the card on the table and watches as I hold up a crystal vase.
I have no idea who the people are who gave it to us, but I smile and say, “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Dante Vietti. I love it.”
A young woman waves and says, “I picked it out. Keep it in your bedroom.” She looks at Carlo. “And you keep fresh flowers in it for your beautiful bride, Carlo. Show her every day how much you cherish her and your marriage.”
“That’s so sweet,” I gush and smile at the woman I have never seen before in my life. But her last name is Vietti, like mine is now, so she must be part of my new family. “I can’t wait to get to know you . . .” I give Carlo a questioning look, hoping he’ll tell me her name.
Thankfully, he understands and says, “Sofia.”
“I can’t wait to get to know you, Sofia. I’m sure we’ll become good friends.” Handing the package to the girl who gave it to me, I turn my attention to the present Carlo holds in his hands. “Your turn, babe.” I find it funny that I’m calling him babe, like we’ve been together for a long time when that’s not the case at all.
The girl who handed him the present reads the card, “This gift is from Mr. and Mrs. Giovanni Vietti.”
“Let’s see what my cousin has given us,” Carlo mutters as he begins to pull the white wrapping paper off the box.
A woman calls out, “Isabella, I’m Gio’s wife, Grace. I can’t wait to get to know you.”
“Me too.” I feel so welcomed.
