Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA MUNIZ
Tomorrow arrived too fast.
Everything around me felt like a cruel performance—an elaborate play Enrico had staged down to the second, where I was forced to walk onto the set and smile while my life burned.
The white dress fit me perfectly.
That was the worst part.
It didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like a weight. A sentence draped over my shoulders. Every step toward the improvised altar in the private garden carried me deeper into the hell he had built with careful hands and cold intent.
Enrico stood at the front with a small group of guests—handpicked, controlled, curated. He looked flawless in a dark suit, the image of a man who belonged in headlines.
When he turned and saw me, he smiled.
A warm, affectionate smile I knew was a lie.
He offered his hand. I had no choice but to take it.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured close to my ear, tenderness performed with the precision of a man who’d practiced it in mirrors.
“Save it,” I whispered back, keeping my smile fixed for the small audience. The corners of my mouth ached from holding it.
His fingers tightened around mine—just enough pressure to remind me that my body, my face, my voice were props he could position wherever he wanted.
The ceremony was short. Intimate on purpose. Carefully designed to look private, reserved—like we were protecting our “privacy” from a world that was supposedly too intrusive.
Every word the officiant said echoed strangely in my head, repeating like a verdict.
I barely heard the vows.
I heard the sound of my own blood.
I heard the scrape of the past—of a cathedral, a bouquet crushed in my hands, a man saying no and turning his back.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant announced.
My heart clenched so hard it hurt.
Enrico turned to me with practiced slowness. He cupped my face gently—gentle enough to look romantic, firm enough to remind me I couldn’t flinch. His gray eyes held mine for a brief, intense second.
Then his lips brushed mine.
It was quick.
Cold in intention—yet warm enough to drag up memories I’d spent years burying. The scent of him. The pressure. The familiarity I wanted to hate more than anything.
Applause rose around us—polite, discreet. I fought nausea and kept smiling.
Enrico’s arm slid around my waist, guiding me through the “happy couple” routine as if he’d rehearsed it. As if he hadn’t once humiliated me at an altar and left me to bleed in front of strangers.
Minutes later, a commotion stirred near the edge of the garden.
Photographers.
Journalists.
They appeared as if summoned—cameras raised, voices calling our names, capturing the perfect “unexpected leak.”
Enrico’s surprise looked real.
His performance of shielding me from the cameras—his hand at my back, his body angled protectively—was so flawless it made my stomach turn.
“We won’t be commenting right now,” he announced, voice calm, authoritative, convincing. “We wanted to keep this moment private. Please respect our privacy.”
The irony nearly made me laugh.
This was exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he planned. And it was unfolding precisely as scripted.
Once we were inside the mansion—away from the lenses and the noise—my posture finally cracked.
“Happy now?” I asked, bitterness heavy in my voice. “You got what you wanted. Again.”
Enrico’s expression dropped the instant the door closed. The warmth evaporated like it had never existed.
“It was necessary, Valentina,” he said flatly. “Don’t start with the drama.”
I drew a shaky breath, trying to keep my rage from spilling out, when André appeared with a phone in his hand. His face was controlled, efficient—like he was reporting a completed transaction.
“It’s done,” he said.
Enrico nodded once, then looked at me again. His tone went even colder, more business than ever.
“We need to reinforce the story immediately.” His eyes darkened, calculating. “You and Clara are moving into my house today.”
My heart stopped.
A freezing shock raced down my spine.
“What?” My voice came out thin, tremoring. “What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer, gaze locked on mine.
“Investors are demanding perfection,” he said. “Newlyweds live together. It’s simple.”
A brittle, disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“Simple?” I snapped. “You’re telling me to uproot my daughter and move her under the same roof as you—without warning, without thinking about what it does to her?”
He didn’t react. Not even a flicker.
“My daughter?” he repeated, one eyebrow lifting. “Our daughter.” His voice sharpened. “And you should be thanking me for treating you with more mercy than you ever showed me. You kept her. You kept your life with her. I didn’t get that privilege. I didn’t even know she existed.”
I took a step back, shaking my head slowly, dread and fury twisting together.
“One day, Enrico,” I said, voice low and shaking with truth, “you’re going to realize how cruel you’ve been. How unfair. And it’ll be too late.” I lifted my chin. “Because I will never forgive you.”
He didn’t even acknowledge it.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “It’s decided. My home is prepared. Clara will be taken care of. I suggest you make this easier.”
Hot tears threatened—rage and despair, clawing up my throat.
“And if I refuse?” I asked, hating how small the question sounded compared to the size of what he was doing to me.
Enrico smiled.
But it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Do you really want to find out?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He turned away and walked out, leaving me standing alone in an immaculate room designed to look romantic while I felt like I was being buried alive.
We were married.
We were going to live under the same roof.
And I knew—deep in my bones—that this was only the next level of the hell he’d planned for me.