Chapter 47 Mara
MARA
Aweek. Seven days until the wedding. Seven days until my name changes and the rest of my life begins to feel like someone else’s script.
I tell myself I’ve adjusted. That I’ve done the hard part: accepting it, moving forward, making peace.
But peace is a strange thing. It doesn’t come with quiet. It comes with numbness.
The tailor pins the last edge of the dress with careful fingers.
“Try not to move,” she says softly. “Almost done.”
I nod, eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror. White silk. Fitted bodice. A clean neckline that shows the curve of my collarbone. It’s beautiful in the same way every prison is beautiful when it’s well-built.
I don’t hate it. I don’t love it either. It just is.
She steps back, squints, and adjusts a pin.
“Perfect,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “You have the kind of posture designers dream about.”
I force a smile. “Lucky me.”
She chuckles politely and moves away, leaving me alone with my reflection. I study the woman in the mirror. The way the fabric molds to her body. The way her hands rest so still at her sides. She looks like she knows what she’s doing. She looks ready.
She’s lying.
The door opens behind me. “You’re supposed to be sitting still, not plotting your escape.”
I turn. Matteo’s leaning against the doorframe, face carved out of stone. He’s the only one who can still make me smile, even if it’s not his intention.
“I wasn’t plotting,” I say.
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
He shakes his head, a small, genuine smile on his lips. The kind that makes you remember what warmth feels like. He’s dressed sharp, as always: black shirt, rolled sleeves, the faintest trace of cologne.
The tailor excuses herself, murmuring something about bringing the finished hem measurements to Valentina. Once the door closes, Matteo steps further into the room.
“You look good,” he says, tone gentler now.
“Thanks.”
“Still hate it?”
“I don’t hate it,” I say honestly. “It’s just…not me.”
He nods like he gets it. Maybe he does.
“Vivian said the same thing about her first dress. She and her ma want a vintage Oscar de la Renta or whoever the fucking designer was.”
I raise a brow. “Sounds like they’re giving you a hard time.”
“It got her ma off my back about her daughter looking perfect.”
I glance at him through the mirror. “And Cicely.”
He goes still, even more than before. “What about Cicely?”
“Matteo, you’re my twin. You think I haven’t noticed?”
His eyes narrow, hands sliding into his pockets. “Noticed what?”
“Whenever she’s in a room, your eyes follow her the entire way.”
“She’s my fiancée’s sister. I’m just observing the way the family acts.”
That earns a snort from me. He just gives me a blank stare.
“Just be careful,” I say. “And if you want to marry Cicely instead, talk to Eli.”
He shakes his head, as if even the suggestion is absurd. “The invites have already gone out. And I don’t want to marry her sister.”
“Whatever you say,” I say softly. “I just wanted to let you know.”
“Well, don’t,” he grumbles. “This isn’t a fairytale, and I don’t care who I have to marry to seal the deal.”
The words land heavier than he means them to. For a second, the room feels too small.
He notices. “Mara.”
I don’t know what he’s going to say, because Matteo isn’t the kind to apologize. Everything he says is logical.
“I—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “I know what you mean. This is all logical for you and nothing more.”
“I…” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to dwell on things. Wishing for things to be different is no use.”
“I understand,” I say quietly. “But that’s not how I process things.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Do you even like him?”
“Orlo? I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Matteo nods as if he understands me. “There’s not much I can advise you on, but if you ever need help cleaning up, you know where to find me.”
“I do.”
He steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I mean it, Mara.”
I smile without meaning to. “I know you do.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“See you at home.”
For a moment, neither of us speak. The only sound is the faint ticking of the clock on the wall: steady, patient, counting down everything I don’t want to think about.
Matteo squeezes my shoulder once before stepping back. “If you ever need a gun—”
“I won’t,” I say gently. “But thank you.”
He nods, jaw tight, and he looks like he’s about to say something more, but instead settles on, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
He leaves before I can beg him to help me escape this and get away from it all.
Later, when the house quiets, I find myself sitting by the window again. The dress hangs nearby, covered in a thin plastic sheet, glowing faintly under the lamplight. It looks like something sacred. Or haunted.
I scroll through my phone without seeing anything, half-listening to the sound of the city outside. Somewhere, a siren wails. Somewhere else, laughter rises and fades. It’s strange how the world keeps spinning like nothing’s happening.
Val
Bee misses her aunt.
I smile and type back.
Me
Her aunt misses her too. Give her a tight hug for me.
She sends a heart emoji.
I set the phone down, lean my head against the window, and let the glass cool my skin.
Eleven months ago, I was at home, falling apart on the inside. Then we lost Ma and Eli decided to send me away to Italy.
I can’t believe how fast everything changed. I should never have fallen for a man who wasn’t emotionally available, but that’s just not how things worked out. Nothing has worked out in my favor.
And yet I don’t regret a second of it all. If I could go back, I’d do it all again. Even if it did end with a disaster.
But he’s always there, in the back of my mind. I don’t think I’ve cried more in my life than I have in the past several weeks. I hate that part the most. That no matter how much distance there is, he’s still everywhere.
My phone lights up again—Alessia this time.
Allie:
Val’s picking me up tomorrow. Brunch at eleven. No excuses.
Me
Fine.
Allie:
You sound thrilled.
Me
I’ll bring enthusiasm. You bring mimosas.
Allie
Done.
I put the phone face-down and stare out into the dark. The rain starts—soft at first, then harder. It always rains the week before something ends.
I pull my blanket tighter around me and slide down until I’m curled at the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The clock on the nightstand ticks steadily, counting seconds that feel heavier than they should.
Seven days. Just seven more days, and everything changes again.
I should sleep, but my mind won’t stop replaying things that don’t matter anymore.
His voice. His touch. The way he always smelled faintly of smoke and cedar. The sound of his laugh when he forgot to be careful.
But what hurts the most is the way he refused to look at me when I confronted him. He didn’t even show up to see me leave with my brother.
Nicolo doesn’t deserve my tears or the space he occupies in my head. He’s a coward.
I close my eyes. Maybe in another life, we would’ve met differently. Maybe in another life, I wouldn’t be a Folonari and he wouldn’t be the kind of man who believes love is a weakness.
But this isn’t that life. And morning always comes, whether you want it to or not.