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The dress is the star, accentuating my slender model physique. All lace. All shoulder pads. Very 80s chic.
Too bad I can’t walk in a straight line. I trip and step on the hem of my long gown. Then I giggle.
A couple guests glance my way and mutter amongst themselves.
I’mthe problem. Not the devil standing at the altar waiting for me.
I snort and shake my head. “Dumbasses.”
Papa gives a tired sigh when he sees me and my short hair. “Stefania… what did you do now? Your beautiful hair. Is that liquor on your breath?”
The music’s playing and it’s our cue. He’s supposed to walk me down the aisle. My father walking me down to my husband.
Fitting, seeing as Papa arranged this in the first place.
There’s a voice inside my head screaming at me to do something. Say something. Yank my arm out of Papa’s and run for it. Make my escape.
I already look crazy, stumbling with my hair chopped off. Why not go all the way?
But I chicken out. I’m held captive under Lucius's cold, cruel glare as he watches Papa escort me down the aisle. It’s plain on his round, pudgy face—don’t fucking try me, Stef.
My mouth clamps shut.
Today is the day I make a deal with the devil.
The minister speaks and I ignore every word. I’m swaying, glancing around, unable to focus. My thoughts are scattered and my heart’s broken. Hundreds sit in the audience and witness my mess live.
They’ll be talking about this for years. Stefania Crotone, daughter of Leandro Crotone, a drunken slob at her own wedding.
I blink and squint as a familiar face sticks out to me. Standing at the entrance of the banquet hall, a man in a suit as dark as his jet-black hair. His face is expressionless, his jaw clenched and hard, though his gaze tells a different story.
What’s left of my heart disintegrates into ash.
Addio per sempre, anima gemella.
My knees wobble and my legs give out. I lose my footing and drop to the floor. On my way down I hit my head and black out.
Today is the day I died of a broken heart.
salvatore
present…
What if lifecould always be this good?
I glance out at the view before me.
White sands and turquoise waters. Chunks of driftwood lying on the ground, and the occasional seagull swooping by. The dusk sky hanging like a ceiling.
Imagery most would consider the epitome of peace.
But I’m focusing on a different detail—the curly-haired woman stretched out on the lounge chair with a book in her hands. Cotton shorts hug her curvy hips and cut off at the very top of her thighs, showing off caramel skin that’s silky to the touch. Her legs bend at the knee, the book she’s reading propped up against her thighs.
Sunglasses cover half her beautiful face, but her eyes are on the words on the page. I know this, because I know everything there is to know about Delphine Rose Adams—when her brows knit like they are, it means she’s concentrating.
Every so often, she turns a page. Her lips move, silent, but kissable just the same as she mouths the words she’s reading.
A sudden strong gust of wind blows some curls into her face, messing up her hair.
