Chapter 4 I'm Waiting

The morning came too quickly.

A soft knock on the door woke Valencia from a dreamless sleep. She blinked, disoriented for a second, then remembered-today was the day. Her wedding day. The day her life would no longer belong to her.

"Miss Valencia," a gentle voice called from behind the door. "It's time."

She didn't respond. She didn't need to. In less than a minute, the door creaked open and a team of women flowed in like a silent storm. Makeup artists. Hair stylists. Fashion consultants. Bridesmaids. They moved around her like she wasn't even there. A porcelain doll to be dressed and displayed.

She sat still, letting them do what they came for.

The curling irons hissed. Brushes swept across her cheeks. Foundation sponged. Lashes extended. Lips painted.

None of it mattered.

What she noticed, though, what stayed with her, were the eyes.

Pity.

It lingered in every glance. Every nervous flick of their gaze when they thought she wouldn't notice. The way the makeup artist hesitated before applying the blush. The way the seamstress's fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the bodice of her ivory dress.

They were preparing a bride, yes-but not for a fairytale.

They were preparing a sacrifice.

She sat in silence through it all. Not flinching. Not crying. Just watching them through the mirror as they did their job with that unspoken sympathy. As if she were already doomed. As if they were sorry.

Valencia didn't want their pity. She wanted a way out. But after last night-after Luca's visit, after his warning-she knew better.

He hadn't threatened her outright.

He didn't have to.

There was something about him-coiled power under control. Like a loaded gun resting on a silk pillow. Beautiful. Dangerous. Unforgiving.

And she was marrying that today.

Once the final pin was placed in her hair and the veil draped softly over her curls, everyone stepped back.

She stood, turning slowly to face them. There were a few forced smiles. One bridesmaid wiped away a tear.

A soft knock came again. One of Luca's men poked his head in.

"She's ready?" he asked one of the women. Then his eyes flicked to Valencia and he gave a short nod. "He's on his way."

The door closed.

She stared at it, her heart slowing but growing heavier with each beat.

Moments passed.

Then a heavier knock.

Three slow raps.

She didn't move.

The door opened anyway.

And there he was.

Luca Moretti. The man who owned fear like others owned charm.

But he paused. Just a fraction of a second.

His eyes swept over her-hair pinned in soft waves, lips the color of wild roses, white dress hugging her frame with a dangerous kind of elegance. She looked like fire trapped in snow.

And for that second, he forgot how to breathe.

But he didn't show it.

His face remained unreadable. Like marble.

His hand casually slid into his pocket, body leaning slightly into the doorway as if to prove he wasn't affected.

"Valencia," he said, voice smooth as smoke.

She turned her head slowly to face him. "Luca."

He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The room felt smaller instantly.

"I was told you were ready."

"I didn't have much of a choice."

A flicker passed through his eyes. "No," he said quietly, "you didn't."

The silence stretched. Tense. Loaded.

"You look..." He hesitated. Just a beat. "Appropriate."

Valencia's lips twitched, but not into a smile. "You mean beautiful. You just don't want to say it."

He looked at her then-really looked.

"You're not the kind of woman who needs to be told she's beautiful," he said. "You already know."

"And yet here I am," she replied, "dressed up for a man who thinks silence is safer than honesty."

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "It's not silence. It's control."

She stepped forward once, slowly. "You can control everything else, Luca. But not me."

He tilted his head. "You're sure about that?"

"No man controls fire," she said simply.

For a moment, something sparked in his gaze. Admiration? Amusement? She couldn't tell.

He walked closer, just enough to lower his voice. "This marriage-"

"-isn't a choice," she cut in.

He didn't argue.

He didn't need to.

They both knew why she was there. Why she was marrying him. Why her father had knelt, begged, and traded her name like currency.

To clear a debt.

To save himself.

"I didn't come here to argue," Luca said finally. "I came to see you. Before it all begins."

She folded her arms. "And what did you expect? Gratitude? A tearful bride waiting to be saved?"

"No." His voice softened. "I expected exactly this."

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

He moved back toward the door, hand on the knob.

"I'll be waiting," he said.

"For what?"

"For the moment you stop pretending you hate all of this."

Then he was gone.

And the door clicked shut once more.

Valencia stood there, alone in silk and lace, her fists tightening at her sides.

She wasn't pretending.

She did hate all of this.

But Luca Moretti never made idle promises.

He was waiting.

And one way or another, he always got what he wanted.