The morning of the wedding dawned bright and impossibly blue, as if even the sky had been bought for the occasion.
Manhattan's skyline sparkled under the early sun, and the streets around St. Ignatius Cathedral were already blocked off, patrolled by police and security agents in tailored black. Reporters camped outside the barricades, their microphones pointed toward the church like weapons.
A drone buzzed overhead. Photographers shouted names as if summoning royalty.
And inside the cathedral, beneath chandeliers made of glass and gold, Lana Brooks was being transformed into a fantasy.
One she didn't believe in.
The bridal suite was pure opulence: velvet furniture, white roses, champagne chilling in a crystal bucket. A team of stylists swarmed around her like bees, curling her hair, brushing powder across her cheekbones, whispering designer names like spells.
Her dress was Dior—ivory silk, corseted, off-shoulder, with a cathedral-length train that trailed like a question she couldn't answer. It had been chosen for her by Camilla and Dante, without her input.
Everything about this day had been scripted.
Even her silence.
Lana stared at her reflection. She looked like someone else. A fairytale bride. Flawless. Unreachable.
But her stomach churned. Her hands were cold inside her gloves.
"Smile, dear," one of the stylists said gently. "You're about to marry the most eligible man in the country."
Lana almost laughed. If only they knew.
She wasn't marrying for love.
She was marrying for survival.
For Owen.
The church filled with whispers and the rustle of silk as guests took their seats. CEOs, politicians, models, and billionaires—all dressed to impress and to speculate.
Every camera was turned toward the altar.
Where Dante Vieri stood like a god carved in black.
His suit was hand-stitched Italian wool. His shoes gleamed. His cufflinks were platinum. But it was his face that captured attention—calm, unreadable, lethal in its stillness.
Next to him stood Matteo Vieri, his younger brother, all easy smiles and charm. The younger Vieri heir wore mischief like cologne.
"I give it six months," Matteo murmured under his breath as he adjusted his cufflink.
Dante didn't look at him. "Then don't drink the champagne."
Behind them, Alessandro Vieri—their father—sat in the front pew with narrowed eyes. His presence was a cold shadow. He didn't approve of this marriage, and he hadn't been subtle about it.
But even he couldn't stop it now.
The music began.
The doors opened.
And the world held its breath.
Lana appeared at the top of the aisle, a vision in silk and diamonds. Her veil was sheer, the light catching her hair like gold thread. Her eyes scanned the crowd briefly, then locked onto Dante.
She counted her steps like she was walking a plank.
One. Two. Three…
Her bouquet trembled slightly. But her chin stayed high.
The walk felt eternal.
When she reached him, he held out his hand.
She placed hers in it.
His grip was warm. Steady. And utterly impersonal.
"Still time to run," he whispered.
"Still time to say something real," she replied.
Neither of them moved.
The priest cleared his throat. "Dearly beloved…"
The words blurred.
Lana heard them, but they were distant. Surreal. Like a movie she wasn't starring in.
She nodded when prompted.
She smiled when required.
She said "I do" like a rehearsed line.
Dante's voice didn't waver when he repeated his vows. His eyes were on her. Sharp. Watchful. Almost curious, as if he couldn't believe she'd really gone through with it.
The kiss was brief. Mechanical. A photo opportunity.
The applause thundered.
Flashes lit the altar.
But Lana felt nothing.
Except… hollow.
The reception was held in the Vieri family estate's private ballroom—white orchids dripping from chandeliers, crystal centerpieces worth fortunes, and a string quartet that played Mozart between courses.
Lana stood beside Dante as the new Mrs. Vieri, her arm looped through his, smiling through lipstick and exhaustion.
Socialites flocked.
Board members offered congratulations laced with warning.
Camilla flitted in and out with quiet efficiency, whispering reminders about seating, press interviews, and timing.
"She's stunning," one guest whispered to another. "But too ordinary for him. What's her story?"
"Upgraded from secretary to Cinderella, I hear."
"Won't last. Vieri always trades up."
Lana heard it all.
Dante heard it too, but said nothing.
Instead, he leaned closer and murmured, "You're doing well."
"You mean I haven't embarrassed you yet," she said through her teeth.
His hand squeezed her waist. "Don't start something you can't finish."
Later, after the first dance—a slow, emotionless waltz that looked passionate only from a distance—Lana slipped away to the garden.
She needed air. Distance. Silence.
She found none.
"Elena Monroe," a smooth voice said behind her. "We haven't met properly."
Lana turned.
The woman was tall, elegant, dressed in crimson silk. Her beauty was sharp. Calculated. Her eyes gleamed with familiarity.
"I'm Dante's ex-fiancée," she added with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though technically, I'm still on the guest list."
Lana's heart thumped once.
Hard.
"I've read about you," she said calmly. "Didn't realize the rumors were true."
Elena tilted her head. "They're always true when it comes to Dante. Or devastating."
"What do you want?"
"To see how long you'll last. He doesn't do forever. He does distraction. Revenge. Damage control."
Lana's spine stiffened.
"Whatever this marriage is," Elena added, stepping closer, "he'll never let you in. And he'll never love you. Not like he loved me."
Lana stared her down. "Then you must be thrilled to watch him marry someone else."
Elena's smile widened. "Oh, I am."
Lana returned inside with her heart racing and her mask back in place.
Dante stood near the fireplace, speaking with Matteo and a silver-haired man in a military-grade suit. His eyes tracked her as she entered.
Later, as they cut the wedding cake, he leaned in.
"Everything okay?"
"You invited your ex to our wedding."
"She wasn't supposed to show."
"She says you loved her."
He met her gaze. "I've loved a lot of things."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
That night, the car ride back to the estate was silent.
Outside, the city faded. Lights blurred. A drizzle began to tap against the tinted glass.
Inside, Lana sat with her hands folded in her lap, her mind spinning.
They were married now. Legally. Publicly.
But they hadn't touched since the staged kiss.
When they arrived, Dante escorted her to her room—just like before. The door clicked shut behind her.
She peeled off the dress slowly, her body aching from the weight of the day. Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number: You made your deal. But do you know what it cost?
Her breath caught.
Another buzz.
Unknown number: Ask him about the three million missing from Vieri Global. Ask him what happened in London.
Lana stared at the screen.
The room spun.
Was someone watching her?
She opened the door. The hallway was empty.
But her instincts screamed.
This wasn't just a marriage of convenience.
It was a minefield.
And someone had just stepped on a live wire.