Chapter 12 Luca #2
The elevator ride down to the parking garage is silent and tense.
Giuliana stands in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the digital floor numbers like they might reveal the secrets of the universe.
I lean against the opposite wall, watching her and trying not to notice how fragile she looks, how breakable.
How much like my mother looked in those final days.
“We have the dress fitting soon,” I say into the silence, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods without looking at me. “Okay.”
“Madame Rousseau’s boutique. Three o’clock.”
Another nod. “I’ll be ready.”
The elevator doors open, and I gesture for her to exit first. She moves past me quickly, maintaining careful distance like she’s afraid of accidentally touching me. Like I might burn her.
Maybe I already have.
The drive to the boutique takes forty minutes through Chicago’s afternoon traffic. Giuliana sits in the passenger seat of my car—I dismissed the driver for this trip, but my bodyguards are in a car behind us—and stares out the window without speaking.
I should be relieved by the silence. I should appreciate that she’s learned not to constantly challenge me or fight every decision. But instead, the quiet feels heavy, oppressive, filled with all the things neither of us is saying.
Danny’s words keep circling through my head. “One phone call won’t hurt your plan. It might help her sanity.”
What if she doesn’t have any sanity left to help?
The boutique is exactly the kind of place I’d expect.
It’s white marble with crystal chandeliers and carefully curated elegance designed to make brides feel like princesses and grooms feel like they’re hemorrhaging money.
Madame Rousseau herself greets us at the door.
She’s tall with dyed blonde hair perfectly styled into a chignon and a professionally warm smile.
“Mr. Marchetti! Ms. Conti! Welcome, welcome. We’re so excited to help you find the perfect gown.” She air-kisses near Giuliana’s cheeks, then mine. Her perfume gives me an instant headache. “Come, come. We have a wonderful selection already pulled based on your measurements.”
She leads us through the showroom to a private fitting area in the back. It’s filled with white couches, three-way mirrors, and champagne chilling in a silver bucket. Love songs play softly in the background. The trappings of romance for a marriage that’s anything but.
“I’ll have my assistant bring out the first selections,” Madame Rousseau says, gesturing for Giuliana to sit. Madame Rousseau’s bracelets jangle together as she clasps her hands. “Can I offer you champagne? Or perhaps some sparkling water?”
“Water,” Giuliana says quietly.
“Make it two,” I add, settling onto one of the couches. “And we’ll need privacy once the dresses are brought in.”
Madame Rousseau’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly, but she nods. “Of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
She disappears through a curtain, leaving us alone in the fitting room.
Giuliana sits on the edge of a white velvet chair, her hands folded in her lap, her posture perfect but her eyes distant.
She’s here physically, but mentally she’s somewhere else.
Somewhere far away from this boutique and this wedding and me.
“Are you going to try on the dresses?” I ask, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.
She blinks, focusing on me like she’d forgotten I was there. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
I frown at that response. “You seem distracted.” Certainly not acting like a blushing bride-to-be.
“I’m not distracted.” She looks away, her jaw working. “I’m just trying to remember what excitement about wedding dresses is supposed to feel like. It’s been a while since I felt much of anything.”
The words are delivered without emotion, which somehow makes them worse. She’s not angry anymore, not defiant. She’s just…empty. Going through the motions because that’s what’s required of her.
Before I can formulate a response, Madame Rousseau returns with an assistant carrying garment bags.
“Here we are!” she says cheerfully. “Now, I’ve selected several styles based on your body type and the information Mr. Marchetti provided.
We have ball gowns, mermaid silhouettes, A-lines, and a few modern sheaths that I think would be absolutely stunning on you. ”
She starts unzipping bags, revealing gowns that even I can tell are expensive as hell. White silk, ivory lace, crystal beading that catches the light and probably costs a small fortune.
“We’ll leave you to try these on,” Madame Rousseau says to Giuliana. “Just ring if you need any assistance with the zippers or buttons. Take your time. Finding the perfect dress is such an important part of the journey.”
Journey. As if this is some romantic adventure.
Once we’re alone, Giuliana stands and moves toward the curtained changing area without a word. I watch her disappear behind the heavy fabric, listen to the rustle of clothing and the whisper of expensive silk.
Minutes pass. Then more minutes. The silence stretches uncomfortably long.
“Do you need help?” I finally ask.
“No.” Her voice is muffled by fabric. “I’m fine.”
But she doesn’t sound fine. She sounds like she’s struggling with something—either the dress or her composure, I can’t tell which.
More rustling. A soft sound that might be a sob quickly muffled. Then the curtain pulls back.
Jesus Christ.
Giuliana stands in the doorway wearing a ball gown straight out of a fairy tale—layers of ivory tulle over silk, a sweetheart neckline that showcases her collarbones and the elegant line of her throat, crystal beading that makes her practically glow under the boutique’s lighting.
Her dark hair is still pulled back in that awful bun, and she’s not wearing makeup, but none of that matters.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And she looks absolutely miserable.
“Well?” She turns slowly, showing me the full effect of the dress. The tulle swirls around her, catching the light. “Does it meet your standards?”
The question is delivered with just enough bite to remind me that she’s not as broken as she appears. That somewhere underneath the compliance and exhaustion, Giuliana Conti is still fighting.
“It’s fine,” I manage, not trusting myself to say more.
Her lips press together in something that’s not quite a smile. “Fine. Of course.” She turns back toward the mirror, studying her reflection with an expression I can’t read. “Everything is always just fine.”
I watch her standing there, this woman I’m supposed to be destroying, and I can’t make myself look away.
The dress transforms her into something ethereal, untouchable, like a vision from a dream I don’t deserve to have.
But more than her beauty, it’s her composure that captivates me—the way she’s holding herself together despite everything, the pride in her spine even when I’ve given her every reason to crumble.
She shouldn’t still be standing. By now, she should be broken, compliant, eager to please me just to avoid further punishment.
That was the plan. That’s what happened to my mother under my father’s cruelty.
She folded inward, became smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but a ghost going through the motions.
But Giuliana isn’t my mother, even if she’d looked like it earlier. She’s something else entirely. Something I didn’t account for in my revenge.
But any more of this, and she will be like my mother.
“Try on the next one,” I say, my voice gravelly. I clear my throat and look down at my hands.
She disappears behind the curtain again without argument. More rustling, more time passing in uncomfortable silence. When she emerges wearing a fitted mermaid gown that clings to every curve before flaring at her knees, I have to look away before I do something stupid.
Like tell her the truth. Admit that somewhere between planning her destruction and executing it, she’s become more than revenge.
“This one?” she asks, that same hollow tone.
“Fine.”
“Of course it is.” She returns to the changing area.
We continue this exercise in torture for another hour.
Giuliana tries on dress after dress—sleek columns that show her figure, vintage-inspired creations with long sleeves and high necks, modern designs with illusion panels and architectural shapes.
Each one is more stunning than the last, and each time she emerges, her expression grows more distant.
The boutique staff coos over her. The seamstress calls her “a dream to fit” and “absolutely stunning.” Madame Rousseau’s assistant mentions how lucky I am, how beautiful the wedding photos will be, how this is the kind of love story people dream about.
All lies. All theater. All designed to prop up the fiction that this is anything other than what it really is—revenge wrapped in white silk and empty promises.
Finally, Giuliana emerges wearing the first dress again. The ball gown with the tulle and the beading. She stands on the platform in front of the three-way mirror, studying herself with an expression that makes me feel uncomfortable.
“I think this is the one,” she says quietly.
Madame Rousseau practically squeals with delight. “Oh, it’s perfect! Absolutely perfect! Your groom must be—”
“Excuse me a moment,” I interrupt, already standing and heading for the door. “I need to take a call.”
I don’t wait for a response before pushing out into the boutique’s main showroom and then outside to the street. The late October air is cool enough to clear my head slightly, but not enough to erase the image of Giuliana in that dress, beautiful and broken and mine in all the worst ways.