Chapter 2

A soft chime from the vestibule announced his arrival.

Franco entered, bearing a bouquet of red roses so large it appeared grotesque. He wore a tailored suit that cost more than most people's cars, his smile perfectly white, a carefully constructed artifice.

"Gia, amore," he called out. His voice was engineered to soothe, a tone that used to make my knees weak. Now, it just made my stomach turn.

"You won't believe the meeting I just had with the Commission. They are eating out of our hands."

He set the roses on the marble island and walked over to me, his gaze sweeping the room before it settled on my face. He leaned in to kiss me.

I turned my head slightly, letting his lips graze my cheek. He didn't notice the rejection. His gaze slid past me to his own faint outline in the darkened glass; he noticed little else.

"That's wonderful," I said, my voice flat.

"It's more than wonderful. It's our future." He grabbed my hands, his thumbs tracing the bones of my hands. "The wedding is going to be the event of the decade. The Boss is pleased."

I looked into his eyes. They were brown, warm, and utterly empty of honesty.

"Franco," I asked, watching his face, searching for a single muscle that betrayed him. "Do you truly honor this vow we are about to make?"

He blinked, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before his expression settled once more. "His smile didn't reach his eyes; the skin around them remained smooth, uncrinkled, and inert. Gia, why are you being so dramatic? Of course I do. You are my life."

"Am I?"

"You're just stressed," he said, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I have a surprise. The jeweler called."

The drive to the Diamond District was in the Maserati.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. It took every ounce of my willpower not to shove it away; his hand rested there, its weight a dead thing I dared not move.

The Family Jeweler was a fortress in the Diamond District. We were ushered into the private viewing room where an attendant offered champagne we didn't drink.

Mr. Ricci, the jeweler, came out with a velvet box. He wore white gloves, handling the object with a reverence reserved for antiquities.

"Mr. Moretti, Miss Vitiello," he said, bowing slightly. "As requested. The custom design."

He opened the box.

Inside sat a pink diamond, oval-cut, surrounded by a halo of smaller white diamonds. It was gaudy. It was loud. It was everything I hated, but Franco had insisted he knew my taste.

"A pink diamond," Franco announced, puffing out his chest. "One of a kind. Just like you, Gia. I told Ricci, 'Find me a stone that no other woman in New York has.'"

He picked up the ring and slid it onto my finger. It felt cold. Heavy. Like a shackle.

"It symbolizes our unique bond," he said, looking at me expectantly. "No one else will ever wear this design."

Tears pricked my eyes.

Franco beamed, a look of profound self-satisfaction settling on his features. "I knew you'd get emotional."

He reached out to wipe a tear from my cheek, mistaking my rage for joy.

He didn't know that two hours ago, I had checked Camilla's private Instagram story. She had posted a photo of her hand, manicured claws wrapped around a steering wheel.

On her finger was a pink diamond. Oval-cut. Halo setting.

The caption read: He said our love is custom-made. Just for me.

And in the background of the photo, blurry but legible, was the invoice from Mr. Ricci. Two rings. Quantity: 2.

He hadn't just cheated on me. He had mass-produced our engagement. He had bought us matching sets like we were cattle he was branding.

I looked down at the ring, the pink stone seeming to pulse under the jeweler's lamps, indifferent to the bile rising in my throat.

"It's breathtaking, Franco," I whispered, fighting the urge to vomit. "Truly... unforgettable."