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Which meant the cost of the wedding had to be astronomical.
Feeling as dirty as Jackson had called her, she had knocked on his study door one evening.
To find him at the rowing machine, dressed in shorts and bathed in sweat. It was a sight that was burned into her brain, her skin, her very cells.
The sight of his curling biceps, ropes of sweat-slicked muscles in his chest and back, the sleek contours of his torso, dissolved every brain cell into mush.
God, they had been rowing champions at Columbia, the four of them. And he still looked just as fit as he had been a decade ago, if not better. She had spent several minutes staring at him, heat uncoiling in her lower belly, every inch of her body vibrating with desire.
When she had finally found her voice and expressed her concerns, he had cast her a look that was like a bucket of ice-cold water over her heated senses.
“Don’t worry, bella,” he had said, rising to his feet. His thick hair was curled with sweat. “This doesn’t count against you. After all, our whole agreement rests on the pretense that I want to throw the love of my life the wedding of her dreams, sì?”
Faced with that mocking scorn, Clio had had to fight against the instinct to rush out of there. “I have been going over the seating charts and I didn’t see your parents’ names,” she finally managed.
His expression shut down instantly, as if a light had gone out. “They’re not coming.”
A warning vibrated in his answer. But instead of heeding it, her mind thought back to them. The rest of the Columbia Four and her included, had all envied Stefan his parents’ unconditional love more than anything.
The Biancos were those picture-perfect Sicilian parents for whom family came first and foremost always. And it had been a shock when they had threatened to cut him off if he didn’t come back home after graduation.
And Stefan hadn’t cared about his inheritance. Only Serena had betrayed him when she realized he wouldn’t have the Bianco fortune behind him.
“Stefan, your parents...they forgave you, didn’t they? For trusting Serena?”
“I have not asked them for it, bella.”
Why? “Wait, you haven’t... I don’t understand.”
His gaze unblinking, he opened the door for her, his withdrawal sending the room into subzero temperatures. “They are not on the guest list because I didn’t invite them, cara. We don’t need to involve any more people in our deception, do we?”
“No,” Clio had replied, reeling from the frost in his words.
What had he meant by that? Had he not seen his parents all these years? How could he bear to keep them at a distance like that?
In that moment, Clio had realized what an utter stranger he was to her.
His distrust of her motives, his insistence that they do it per his rules, the cold front he presented if she asked anything personal—she finally understood he wasn’t just lost to her.
He had buried everything good and decent about him. But before she left his life, before he was through with her, she was determined to remind him what he had been once. And she had to begin with bringing his parents back into his life.
Hers would never forgive her, but Stefan...he could have his parents back.
“Clio?”
Coloring, Clio looked at Zayed. “Thank you so much for reminding me that I have friends, Zayed.” She blew a long breath out, remembering her mother’s unforgiving words, and their blatant refusal to come. Reminded herself that she had friends who would always stick by her. “And for agreeing to give me away.”
“You did me an honor when you asked me.” Still smiling, he cast a quick look ahead. “I can feel Stefan’s gaze drilling holes in my head. Not even my enemy country’s politics make me shudder so,” he said with a mock shiver. “Are you ready for him, Clio?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Clio turned toward her waiting bridegroom.
Dressed in a black evening suit, his thick hair combed back, he stood out so prominently amidst the rest of the men.
He had promised her he would help her. And that he kept his word—even though a wedding, even of the fake kind, clearly filled him with utter fury—she hugged it to herself.
Whatever else he claimed, Stefan Bianco was a man of honor.
“I’m ready, Zayed,” she whispered.
Her hold on the lilies in her hand shaky, she followed Zayed’s lead as the music began.
With both her parents and Stefan’s not in attendance, she had decided to do without a maid of honor, electing to stick to the traditions only by a bit. Somehow it felt as if it fit them—this wedding among friends who were their true family, in the city that had welcomed them with open arms a decade ago.
