Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two weeks have slipped by since that night at Marea, and I've been swept into a whirlwind of wedding preparations that feel more like battle plans than celebrations.
Every morning begins with a text from Byron's wedding planner—a severe woman named Vivian with pin-straight hair and opinions just as rigid.
She schedules my days down to fifteen-minute increments: dress fittings, floral arrangements, cake tastings, venue tours.
All for a marriage built on revenge and deception.
Yesterday was my third dress fitting at Vera Wang. The gown is a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate lace—a costume for the performance of my lifetime. As I stood on the pedestal surrounded by mirrors, Byron circled me like a shark, his eyes calculating rather than admiring.
"Perfect," he'd murmured, not to me but to himself. "The picture of innocence."
That's what I am to both men—a carefully crafted image. To Byron, I'm his revenge weapon wrapped in silk and diamonds. To Damiano, I'm a business transaction in human form.
The invitations went out last week—300 heavy cream envelopes carrying our names side by side in gold calligraphy.
Damiano Feretti and Zoe Easton request the honor of your presence.
The guest list reads like a who's who of New York's elite and underworld alike.
Politicians who take bribes from both families.
Celebrities who don't ask questions about their wealthy friends. Crime bosses from three continents.
Each night, I return to my room and practice my smile in the mirror until my cheeks ache. I rehearse the way I'll look at him—adoring, trusting, the perfect devoted wife—while memorizing the security layouts of his properties that Byron provides me.
I've spoken to Damiano only twice since our dinner—brief, cold conversations about logistics.
His lawyer met with Byron's three times.
Every detail of our arrangement spelled out in contracts thicker than novels—property agreements, business arrangements, even a schedule of public appearances we're expected to make together.
The only bright spot in these suffocating weeks has been my phonecalls with Scarlett.
"Are you sure about this, Zoe?" she'd asked. "There's still time to walk away."
Today, I'll walk down the aisle toward my father's killer. And as I place my hand in his, I'll be one step closer to watching the life drain from his eyes.
"All done, Miss Easton. You look absolutely stunning."
The hairdresser steps back with a satisfied smile, her fingers still hovering near my perfectly styled waves as if she can't quite let her masterpiece go.
The full-length mirror reflects a stranger back at me—a bride with immaculate hair over bare shoulders, makeup that transforms my features into something ethereal and flawless.
I don't care how I look. Not really. But I force my lips into a practiced smile anyway.
"It's perfect," I say with just the right amount of breathless excitement. "You've done an amazing job."
I stand, smoothing the silk of my robe as I approach the mirror for a closer inspection. Every curl is deliberately placed, every eyelash perfectly separated. The subtle pink blush makes me look innocent and glowing. I touch my hair gently, making all the right appreciative sounds.
Three makeup artists, two hairdressers, a photographer, and several assistants hover around me in the room. None of them matter. None of them know the truth. But I perform for them anyway—the blushing bride, nervous and excited on her special day.
"The champagne is divine," I tell one of the assistants who offers me a flute. I take a small sip, pretending to savor it when I can barely taste anything at all.
"It's time for the dress," announces Vivian, clapping her hands sharply to clear the room of unnecessary personnel.
Two assistants bring it forward on its padded hanger—seventy-five thousand dollars of hand-embroidered silk and rare lace. I slip out of my robe, standing in my custom La Perla lingerie as they carefully lower the gown over my head.
The weight of it settles on my shoulders, cool silk against my skin. One assistant kneels to arrange the train while another fastens the dozens of tiny pearl buttons up my back.
"Breathe in, please, Miss Easton," one murmurs, and I comply mechanically.
The dress fits perfectly, of course. It was made to. I stare at my reflection as they fuss with the veil, arranging it just so around my face.
The woman in the mirror looks like a princess from a fairy tale.
"You look absolutely divine," gushes one of the makeup artists.
I turn, giving them all the radiant smile they expect. "Thank you. I feel... incredible."
Someone knocks at the door.
"Come in," I call.
Byron steps inside, immaculate in his tuxedo. When our eyes meet in the mirror, something shifts in his expression. For once, the coldness is gone, replaced by something I've rarely seen—emotion.
"Zoe," he breathes, and his voice actually trembles. "You look... extraordinary."
He approaches slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. When he stands behind me, I can see both our reflections—me in white, him in black, the picture of father and daughter.
His hands rest gently on my shoulders, and I'm surprised by the comfort I feel from his touch.
"I know I've been hard on you," he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Preparing you for this world hasn't allowed much room for... sentiment."
Something twists in my chest. In all our years together, Byron has never apologized, never acknowledged the emotional distance he's kept. Now, on my wedding day—of all days—he's showing me a glimpse of the father I've always wanted him to be.
"You've done everything for me," I say, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside.
His eyes shine with what looks suspiciously like tears. "You deserved better than what I could give you, Zoe. I'm not... good at showing affection. But I need you to know—" he pauses, clearing his throat. "I need you to know how proud I am. Of you. Of the woman you've become."
I wonder if this is real or just another performance. Does he actually care for me, or is this part of our grand deception? Has there been love beneath the cold behaviour?
"It's time," he says, offering his arm. "Are you ready?"
I take his arm, feeling hollow and full all at once. "I'm ready."
The car waiting outside is a gleaming white Rolls Royce, decorated with subtle white flowers. Byron helps me inside, careful of my dress and train, then slides in beside me.
As we pull away from the mansion, I stare out the window at the passing scenery. The city looks different today—brighter, sharper, as if I'm seeing it through new eyes.
The church looms before me, its stone facade stretching toward the sky like something from another era. I feel the weight of history pressing down as Byron helps me from the car, careful not to disturb my elaborate train.
The church doors open, and I'm hit by a wave of perfume, cologne, and the heavy scent of flowers. My heart thunders against my ribs as I take in the sea of faces turned toward me. Hundreds of people—most of whom I've never met—rise to their feet at my entrance.
I scan the crowd from behind my veil. The front rows hold Byron's business associates—men with hard eyes and expensive suits. I recognize Senator Mitchell, whose campaigns Byron has funded for years, and Judge Harriman, who mysteriously dismisses cases against Byron's interests.
Further back, I spot faces from newspaper articles and Byron's intelligence files—crime bosses, corrupt officials, and legitimate businessmen who've made devil's bargains. They're all connected by invisible threads of power, money, and secrets.
Women in designer dresses assess my dress. Children fidget in their formal clothes. Security personnel line the walls, their expressions blank but eyes vigilant.
It strikes me that not a single person here is truly my friend. Even Scarlett couldn't attend—I'd insisted she stay away, far from this dangerous theater.
The string quartet transitions to the wedding march. My cue.
Byron's arm tightens around mine as we begin our slow procession down the aisle. I feel every step like I'm walking to my own execution rather than my wedding. Each face we pass is a mask—smiling, approving, completely unaware of the truth beneath this elaborate charade.
And then, at the end of the aisle, I see him.
Damiano Feretti stands tall and imposing. Even from here, I can see the way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders. His dark hair is styled impeccably, and his stance radiates power and control.
Our eyes lock through my veil, and the rest of the church seems to fade away. His lips curve into a knowing smirk that sends a chill down my spine—confident, possessive, almost predatory. As if he's won something precious.
That smirk ignites a familiar rage inside me. This man destroyed my life. And now he stands before an altar, ready to claim me as his prize.
As Byron and I reach the altar, Damiano steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine. My stomach tightens with loathing as he extends his hand toward me.
"I'll take it from here," he says to Byron, his voice deep and commanding.
The moment our skin touches, his fingers close around mine like a trap.
He pulls me closer, bending his head until his lips brush against my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
"Hello, lupacchiotta," he whispers, the Italian word rolling off his tongue like silk. Little wolf. The intimacy of the nickname makes my skin crawl.
I turn my head slightly, our faces inches apart. "What did you call me?" I whisper back, keeping my smile fixed in place for our audience.
His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating smirk. "You'll learn, soon enough."