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Drake cleared his throat. “If you ladies will excuse me. Have a good day.”
“Is your fiancée aware of your relationship with Miss Russo?” Megan asked.
Drake rounded on her. “Excuse me?”
Megan held her hands up to ensure she meant no harm. “Off the record, Mr. Walker. I’d have to be blind not to see the attraction between you.”
In heels, Alessandra only stood as tall as Drake’s shoulder. Her face turned red once more as he gazed down at her. Megan studied their body language intently. She could sell the hell out of this story without trying.
“No comment,” he said without taking his eyes off Alessandra.
“Thank you, Drake,” she croaked and broke eye contact.
Although Drake seemed like he had more to say, he nodded and quickly departed. Alessandra immediately walked toward a sleek black town car that pulled up to the curb. An imposing figure stepped out to open the door for her.
She was unaware that Megan Gordon was not the sole witness to their conversation.
***
Chapter One
Anticipation made Alessandra giddy as she reached for the heavy veil. Turning the fabric over in her hands, she tried to picture the face of her husband-to-be. She hoped for a charming and adventurous man with tousled dark locks and captivating eyes who could sweep her off her feet.
Growing up, Alessandra fantasized about this day many times. She visualized the moments with her bridal party, sipping mimosas while getting their hair and makeup done. Family and friends would watch in reverence as she attempted to stifle happy tears while floating down the aisle to her groom—glowing with pride—shedding a tear of his own, waiting to pledge himself to her. She would vow to happily obey him as a loving and devoted wife as long as they both shall live before riding off into the sunset of wedded bliss.
But this was far from that circumstance. The only company she had was a hair-and-makeup artist who tried to make conversation, but Alessandra found it hard to muster a smile. She stepped into her dress, transforming into the most beautiful bride, and wished her mother was there to see her. Her groom would most likely be an associate of her father—some greasy-haired, middle-aged man who smelled of cigar smoke with meat sweats. Her skin crawled at the thought.
Once, a teenaged Alessandra thought she’d found true love. The kind of fairytale that romance novels made young women believe in. They made plans to run away together the day she turned eighteen, leaving Lake Forest a distant memory. She didn’t need the pomp and circumstance of a white wedding, only the groom and a Vegas wedding chapel. He promised to love her forever, and everything was perfect until her father discovered their secret romance, twisted it, and made it lethal.
As the only daughter of Anthony Russo, Alessandra’s hopes of choosing anything in her own life never came easy—if at all. Bitter tears stung her eyes as she fought them back. Reminiscing about Luca Donato only hurt; she had the scars to prove it. Alessandra chastised herself for being foolish and instead focused on not ruining her makeup.
Today would be a day just like any other, and she would be strong enough to get through it. The only problem was she just didn’t want to. The only thing she knew of her new husband was that he was influential in Chicago, which would benefit her father. Women had no power in this life and helped the family through strategic arrangements.
Tony took care of all the planning, allowing Alessandra to choose only her dress. Two weeks prior, her brother’s girlfriend, Jenny, had taken her to a dress shop on Randolph Street.
A bell could be heard from the rear of the shop as they entered. Shortly after, a slender woman with pink colored streaks and a hoop in her nose and brow, welcomed them with a flawless smile that didn’t quite reach her icy stare. “Welcome to 606 Bridal, ladies. Is one of you the lucky bride?”
“I am,” Alessandra admitted.
The woman’s smile grew wider as if she was anticipating a sale. “You’ll make a stunning bride. When is the wedding?”
“It’s in two weeks.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t give us much time.” Annoyance flashed across the woman’s face.
Alessandra pulled her father’s black card from her Hermès handbag and handed it to the saleswoman whose tag read Alicia. Her eyes widened as her manicured fingers grasped the card. “What is your name, Miss?”
The name Russo was on the black card. “Call me Alessandra.”
“Please follow me this way, Alessandra. I’d be happy to fetch you a glass of champagne as we discuss your needs.”
Alessandra and Jenny took seats on the plush purple loveseat while a team of women surrounded them. Rack after rack of dresses was brought for Alessandra to peruse. Noting that nothing seemed appealing to the bride-to-be’s tastes, the saleswoman asked, “What would your fiancé like?”
Alessandra laughed wryly. “It’s an arranged marriage to a stranger. I don’t care what he would like.”
“Alessandra,” Jenny said, scandalized.
Alessandra rolled her eyes at the petite woman sitting beside her. The bridal shop attendant appeared sympathetic and excused herself.
