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Andrea and I were similarly built when we were younger, but when puberty hit, my sister kept her slender figure and I didn’t. It’s as if my body is made of two halves that don’t really fit together. I love my narrow waist and flat stomach. My breasts are average but firm. Having a petite upper body allows me to purchase the smallest size T-shirts and tops. The bottom half of me, however, is a different story all together. My ass and hips are at least two sizes too big for my torso. Diets never helped much because they only caused my breasts and my already thin arms to get smaller before my ass would get the memo.
Andrea is always telling me I’m crazy and she’d kill for a butt like mine, but I don’t see it. Although I’ve never struggled with any self-esteem problems, I wouldn’t say no to a smaller booty and slimmer thighs. I sigh as I look at my reflection again.
“What do you want to be done with your hair, Miss Isabella?” the hairstylist asks.
“Leave it loose,” my mother suggests from the chair in the corner of the room. She’s been overseeing the preparations since five this morning.
“Loose is okay.” I shrug.
Luca didn’t come to see me. Not on the day my grandfather announced that we'll be getting married, and not any time during the following weeks. I guess he considered it not necessary since we already knew each other.
I assess my reflection again, noting the long, white, lacy dress and expensive tiara on top of my head. My dream is finally coming true. But, I never thought it would be such a bitter experience. Based on what I overheard the morning I eavesdropped outside of my grandfather's study, I should have expected it.
“What am I going to do with a nineteen-year-old,”Luca said. As if I was a stray dog someone brought in off the street. One he couldn’t throw out, but he didn’t want there either.
I’m glad I only overheard the tail end of the conversation. God knows what else he said before that.
There is a knock on the door and my father’s head peeks inside. “You’re beautiful, Isa.” He smiles and turns to my mother. “Emma, we need to hurry or we’re going to be late.”
“We’ll be down in a minute,” she says, moving somewhere behind me.
The staff leave the room first, my mother following, then Andrea and I exit last.
“Smile, Isa! You’re finally marrying Luca,” she whispers. “It still feels surreal.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, come on. It’s your wedding day for God’s sake. I expected you to be ecstatic. People will expect you to be happy.”
“I’m just nervous,” I lie. I haven’t told her about what I heard Luca say in Grandfather’s study. “Here, better?” I ask and offer one of my favorite fake smiles.
“Perfect. I love that one, I’ve never really managed to pull off the right mix of happiness with a tiny bit of shyness. You were always Mom’s best student.” She laughs.
Yes, it's all about appearances in our world.
My divorce is official as of yesterday afternoon. And now, not even twenty-four hours later, I’m standing in front of an altar, waiting for my new bride. Unbelievable.
The church’s tall door opens, and Isabella, on her father’s arm, steps inside. I take the opportunity to study my future wife as she approaches. Maybe it’s the light, but her face looks different from the last time I saw her for more than a fleeting second. She’s still breathtaking. Still the same long hair, huge eyes, and sharp cheekbones. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but there’s something amiss. She gives the impression that she’s happy. A small smile is on her lips, and her head is held high—a picture-perfect image of a radiant bride. I move my gaze back to her eyes, and that’s when I see it. Her face might be showing happiness and joy, but the emotion doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, they seem... empty.
She takes the final step to stand beside me, her gaze focused solely on the priest. Of course she doesn’t want this either. What nineteen-year-old would want to be tied to a man almost twice her age? She must be scared about what’s happening. I should have gone to speak with her beforehand, met her properly prior to the wedding. It’s not as if I’m planning on us having a marriage that fits the true sense of the word, but still.
As the priest starts speaking, I reach out to take her hand in mine, and hear her sharp intake of breath. Isabella looks down at our joined hands, then lifts her gaze to stare right at me. Her eyes are not vacant anymore, and as she watches me, I can almost see the fire burning in their dark depths. I like that much better than the dead look.
After the priest finishes and we exchange rings, I lean down and place a quick kiss on her cheek. When I straighten and look at her, I find her watching me with that empty stare again.
* * *
I lift my glass and sip the seltzer without taking my eyes off the corner of the room where my young wife is standing with her sister and mother.
The moment we arrived at the country club, where the wedding lunch is being held, Isabella left my side and went to the opposite end of the room. She hasn’t looked in my direction once. I should be relieved. Instead, I’ve been watching her for more than an hour, noticing every man who gives her a passing glance. It pisses me off. Not only the looks other men are giving her, but also the fact that it’s bothering me.
“What an unexpected turn of events,” Lorenzo Barbini says as he steps up next to me.
“Oh?” I take another sip of my drink. “Do you mean the wedding or the fact that Giuseppe named me his successor?”
“Both, to be honest. I thought the plan was to have Angelo Scardoni marry his granddaughter.”
“Plans change,” I say.
