Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Valentina
In front of Hautest Bridal Couture, our driver stops the armored SUV.
I know the name. The most exclusive shop in the city. The owner, Randy, has been opening more boutiques across Texas. Two of my friends were Hautest brides, so I’ve been to the Dallas location. And each time was quite the experience.
A guard who was also riding in the front seat exits immediately, and Moretti follows, giving me a much-needed break from him.
Even though the vehicle is enormous, the interior felt too small and too intimate, and I was relieved that he spent the majority of the time typing into his phone.
But anytime he lowered the device and looked in my direction, my heart dropped into my stomach.
My brain keeps screaming warnings about the man, but my body stubbornly ignores every single one of them.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before, and I hate it.
He reaches back inside the passenger compartment and extends his hand toward me. Ignoring him, I slide across the seat.
His satisfied smile makes me instantly regret my reaction. I want to prove I’m unaffected by him, not telegraph my feelings.
Instinctively I reach for my purse, but I don’t have it. He’s returned none of my belongings, including my phone. Which means I’m dependent on him for everything I want.
Damn him. Another reason to hate him.
The infuriating man hasn’t budged.
His dark eyes meet mine, holding a challenge laced with that infuriating possessiveness, as if he’s already won this battle.
Gritting my teeth to bite back my irritation, I slide my palm against his.
I freeze as electricity arcs through me.
Slowly he tips his head to one side and raises an eyebrow. Maybe I can’t help my reaction to him, but he feels it too.
More pleased than I should be by the knowledge, I pull my shoulders back and alight.
The guard’s bulky frame blocks the early sun for a moment, and I yank my hand away from Moretti’s.
To his credit, he says nothing. Instead, he places his fingers against the small of my back. The possessive heat of his touch radiates through my silk dress as he guides me toward the boutique’s entrance.
As we approach the door, I notice the digital closed sign, but the door immediately swings open.
“Mr. Moretti, a pleasure to welcome you.”
The guard follows us inside, and once the door is locked behind us, he takes up his position next to it.
The man, who I know to be the owner, Randy, shakes Moretti’s hand before turning to me with a smile.
“Ms. Russo. It’s an honor to dress you.”
I attempt a polite smile.
If I ever got married, I’d probably shop at one of his stores. But this… This is a farce.
“We’re all ready for you.”
Moretti nods.
“Right this way.”
As we follow, Moretti keeps his fingers on me, and I swear sparks are starting to ignite along my spine.
Though I’ve been in one of Randy’s boutiques, this is the flagship store, and the interior envelops us in opulence—crystal chandeliers casting soft prisms over racks of gowns in ivory, champagne, and blush, the air scented with fresh lilies and the faint undertone of silk.
Mirrors line one wall, multiplying the space into infinity, and a raised platform in the center waits like a stage for unwilling performers.
My stomach twists, a knot of reluctance tightening with each step. This isn’t a fairy tale; it’s a prison dressed in silk and lace.
I glance at Moretti.
His profile is sharp and unreadable, and I wonder if he feels any remorse for dragging me here, for turning my life into this farce.
Randy gestures to a seating area near the platform, where a low table holds a silver tray of continental breakfast delights—flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar, fresh berries glistening in crystal bowls, slices of prosciutto and cheese arranged artfully.
A French press steams with rich coffee, its aroma deep and inviting, mingling with the pop of a bottle he uncorks with practiced flair. “I’ve prepared a little something to make this experience even more special. Coffee? Champagne?”
“My bride will have coffee,” Moretti answers for me, dropping his fingers and moving toward the table.
Even though he’s made the exact right choice on my behalf, I scowl at him. After everything that’s happened in the last fourteen or so hours, the only thing I need is caffeine.
Well, and one of those amazing looking croissant sandwiches.
“Black?” Moretti offers, picking up the pot.
He’s offering to be nice? Remembering what happened last time he got me a drink, I wave a hand. “I’ll pour my own.”
His grin is as quick as it devastating.
For a moment, our gazes lock.
Then Randy clears his throat, and I glance away from the man who thinks he’s going to marry me.
“I’ll have a cup,” Moretti tells me. “Black.”
Asshole.
Ignoring him, I pour one for myself and add a splash of cream.
Moretti angles his head to one side, acknowledging my rebellion.
If he wanted a compliant woman, he should have kidnapped someone other than me.
While Moretti fills his own cup, Randy asks what kind of dress I prefer.
Caught off guard, I blink. I honestly have no idea.
Marriage has never been more than a vague concept to me. Unlike many of my friends, I’m not a woman who has dreamed of my wedding day.
When I finally admit that I don’t know where to start, Randy nods smartly, as if he’s heard that response a million times before. And I’m pretty sure he hasn’t.
“We’ll figure that out as we go. I’ve pulled a selection based on Mr. Moretti’s descriptions—elegant, timeless, with a touch of drama. Something to highlight your stunning figure.”
Moretti gave him direction?
I glare at him, and he angles the rim of his cup toward me. “Wanted to make this as easy for you as possible, darling.”
It’s all I can do not to snarl.
The annoying-as-hell man settles into a plush armchair that faces the platform, legs spread wide, one ankle crossed over his knee, exuding the authority of a lord surveying his domain.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Randy claps his hands lightly, his energy infectious despite my reluctance.
Still holding my coffee, I follow him to a private dressing area.
He closes the door behind us.
The room is surprisingly spacious, and there are mirrors on three sides, along with a velvet bench. There’s also a small table for my coffee.
Randy points out a silk robe bearing the shop’s logo. “If you’d like to slip into that, we can begin.”
No doubt refusal will mean that Moretti will stride in and strip me.
And part of me is tempted to push him.
“Something to eat?” he asks.
After everything I’ve been through, I’m ravenous. “One of those croissant sandwiches, please.”
He leaves, and I study the robe and the entire rack of dresses. All of them are white.
Needing fortification, I drink my coffee before reluctantly changing into the robe.
When he returns, he’s carrying my breakfast, and he’s thoughtfully warmed it up so the cheese is all gooey goodness.
Even after I’ve finished eating and I’ve wiped my fingers on a damp, warmed towel, I’m no closer to wanting to try any of them on.
“Where would you like to start?”
I wrinkle my nose.
“How about this one?” He plucks a silk A-line with a high neckline and long sleeves from its hanger.
His touch is totally professional, and within moments, the fabric slides over my skin like cool water, hugging my curves before flaring gently at the hip. The train pools behind me in a whisper of luxury.
I turn toward the mirror. The material catches the light. It’s smooth and unadorned, simple in its elegance.
It feels fine—understated, maybe, but that’s what I want.
But as Randy pins a veil into my hair, doubt creeps in. It’s not perfect.
Then again, will anything be?
“What do you think?”
“I’m not…” I turn several different directions. There’s technically nothing wrong with the fit, but I’m not convinced I like it. “I don’t know.”
“Shall we get your fiancé’s opinion?”
I want to tell him none of this is real, but I keep my mouth shut.
Valentina Russo doesn’t air her dirty laundry in public.
But still… “No.” I don’t like it nearly enough to spend more than five minutes in it.
We go through another few of his selections, all with similar results.
Then I’m jolted by an impatient knock on the door. “I want to see a dress, Valentina.”
“I’m trying things on.”
“And I’m growing impatient. If you don’t want me in there with you…”
His unfinished threat hangs in the air.
Frustrated, I close my eyes. He’ll follow through; I have no doubt. And this room is too damn small to have him in here.
And I don’t want him seeing me half naked.
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.” Then, unable to help myself, I add a very sarcastic, “Sir.”
Moretti chuckles, a dark sinister sound. “That’s how I like my bride. Respectful and compliant.”
Oh my God.
The bastard liked that?
“Five minutes, Valentina. Or I’ll be the one putting you in a gown.”
My stomach flutters in a mix of defiance and desire. But I hold my breath until I’m sure he’s gone.
If he’s at all surprised by our interaction, Randy doesn’t let on. Instead, he turns away. “Finding out what you don’t like will help us get closer to the perfect one.”
Even though I remain unconvinced, I exhale.
He selects another gown.
I don’t like it either.
Maybe it’s the idea of marriage I hate more than the dress.
Reluctantly I leave the room and step up onto the platform.
The gown’s weight pulling at my shoulders, I face Dante.
His gaze rakes over me slowly, starting at the hem and climbing up, lingering on the way the fabric clings to my waist, the modest neckline that hides more than it reveals.
Heat builds under his scrutiny, my nipples tightening against the built-in cups, and I hate that I can’t control my physical response to him.
Though his expression continues to be neutral, he taps his fingers once on the armrest.
Of course I note the gesture.
It’s a subtle tell that he’s assessing, calculating.
This is knowledge I’ll be able to use against him later.
“Too conservative.”
“But we’re getting married in a church.” Why do I have to argue with him? After all, I don’t like it either.
“It hides you.” His voice is low and resonant, carrying across the room with its finality. “Next.”
Randy nods without question, ushering me back, his hands efficient on the buttons.
The next is a ballgown style with layers of tulle cascading from a fitted bodice. The skirt is voluminous and romantic. It swishes as I move, and the fabric is surprisingly light and airy. And Moretti can’t argue with the off-the-shoulder straps.
In the mirror, I study myself critically.
The fullness feels overwhelming.
Randy is behind me, waiting for my response.
I want to like it so I can get this whole thing over with. Instead, I shake my head.
And then Moretti’s voice reaches across the distance like a whiplash.
“Valentina! I’m waiting for you.”