Chapter 4 wedding preparations

I woke up to the sound of someone banging on my door like the FBI had finally tracked me down.

For one blissful second, I forgot everything-where I was, what I'd agreed to. Then it all came crashing back. The kidnapping. The fake wedding I had proposed. The man who might kill my father. Right. My life had officially turned into a mafia-themed soap opera.

Before I could even sit up, the door flew open. A woman strolled in like she owned the place, heels clicking against the floor like gunshots. Behind her came a literal army-stylists, assistants, and people carrying enough fabric that could fit a whole royal court.

"Good morning, darling," she announced, eyes scanning me with a mix of horror and purpose. "We have a lot to do before you say 'I do.'"

I blinked at her. "And... who exactly are you?"

She offered a dazzling smile. "Vivienne. Personal stylist, event coordinator, miracle worker-and your best friend for the next twelve hours."

"Well, hate to break it to you, Vivienne," I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, "but I don't think even your magic can turn me into a blushing bride. I look more like a hostage with Stockholm Syndrome."

She smirked. "Trust me, sweetie. I've worked with worse."

Before I could reply, two girls yanked the blankets off me and started dragging me toward the bathroom.

"I can bathe myself, you know," I grumbled, clutching at my towel for dignity.

But they ignored me.

After a thorough scrubbing that felt more like a decontamination ritual than a spa day, I was towel-wrapped and dumped into a chair in front of a massive vanity mirror. What followed could only be described as a beauty assault.

Turns out, wedding prep was less champagne and glitter and more torture with lipstick and the likes.

Vivienne's team moved like a hive, curling, brushing, blending, pinning. I sat like a statue, wondering at what point I'd officially lost control of my life.

"I'm beginning to regret ever suggesting this," I muttered. "Not that I had much of a choice."

"Sit still," Vivienne said sharply, dabbing something onto my face. "You're marrying the most powerful man in the country. The least you can do is look like you belong on his arm."

"Oh, right. My bad. I forgot that my kidnapper has a thing for glamor."

One of the assistants snorted. Vivienne's death glare had her pale in an instant.

I raised an eyebrow at her shrinking form. "Poor girl. At least she's not the one marrying a mafia boss."

Hours passed. My muscles ached, and my patience wore thin. And just when I was going to snap, not that I haven't been doing that since, Vivienne finally stepped back and said, "Done," I turned to the mirror-and froze.

I barely recognized the woman staring back at me, I mean I looked beautiful.

My hair was swept into elegant waves, the makeup soft but flawless, making me look expensive in a terrifyingly effortless way. The dress was stunning-layers of ivory lace, a cathedral-length train, and a corset so tight I couldn't breathe deeply. I looked like a bride straight out of a fashion magazine.

Too bad I felt like a sacrificial lamb.

"So," I asked, adjusting the veil, "what's the verdict? Blushing bride or tragic victim?"

Vivienne gave a small smirk. "Depends on who you ask."

Before I could think of a snarky comeback, the door creaked open.

Silence slammed over the room.

I didn't need to look. I felt the shift in the air-the way it thickened, like it had to make room for him.

Alessino stepped inside, and everyone went still.

Vivienne's confidence drained instantly. She stepped back from me, her fingers trembling as she let go of my train. "My job here is done," she said quickly, voice tight as if she couldn't wait to escape. "I'll leave you to it."

And just like that, she and her army scattered, disappearing in a blink.

Leaving me alone with him, well damn her.

I didn't turn to face him. Not right away. But I felt his gaze. It was like being under a spotlight made of ice and fire all at once.

"Stand," he said coldly.

I hesitated a heartbeat, then obeyed. The gown swept against the floor as I rose.

Alessino walked toward me, slow and deliberate. My breath hitched, but I held still. He reached out, and for a terrifying second, I thought he'd hit me, don't ask me why I thought like that, I mean in my situation who wouldn't.

Instead, he adjusted the edge of my veil, fingers grazing my temple.

"You look the part," he said at last, voice cold and unreadable. "Let's hope you can play the part."

"I'll do my part," I said quietly. "As long as you hold up yours."

His fingers stilled.

"I don't make deals," he murmured. "To go back on."

My throat tightened, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. After a beat, he released the veil and stepped back.

"The wedding starts in one hour. Be ready."

Then he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I let out a shaky breath and gripped the edge of the vanity for balance. One hour. That was all the time I had left before I became Emilia Alessino. Even tho to us it was a fake marriage but to the world it was not.

It wasn't just a name. It was a cage. A target. A trap.

I was about to walk down the aisle and say "I do" to a man who might shoot my father the second he saw him.

But what Alessino didn't know was that I had no intention of letting that happen.

No matter what he'd told me-no matter the pain in his voice when he spoke of that night-my father was still my father. And I needed to hear his side of the story.

Even if it meant betraying the man I was about to marry.