Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
VALENTINA MUNIZ
I stood at the living room window, watching the street like it might give me a warning.
My fingers clenched the lapels of my robe so tightly the fabric twisted in my hands. Ever since Enrico called—ever since he said he was coming with a definitive solution—time had started slipping through my fingers in a way I couldn’t control.
Something in his voice had sent a chill through me. Not anger. Not even contempt.
Certainty.
That was what terrified me the most.
When the dark car stopped in front of my house, I forced myself to breathe. Once. Twice. Like air could make me stronger. Like it could keep my knees from shaking.
Enrico stepped out immediately—tall, sharp, dressed like the world belonged to him—and crossed the small garden with determined steps.
Before he could touch the doorbell, I opened the door.
Our eyes met.
“You said you had a solution,” I murmured, crossing my arms in a defensive posture that didn’t come close to covering what I felt. “I’m listening.”
He walked in without asking, as if permission was a formality beneath him. The way he filled the space—claimed it—was painfully familiar.
“I’ll be direct, Valentina,” he said, voice firm, almost clinical.
“The scandal is out of control. Investors are backing out. Ferrara Corp is exposed.” His gaze flicked over my face like a cold assessment.
“And based on what I’ve seen—and what my sources confirm—this situation isn’t exactly treating you kindly either. ”
I didn’t blink.
“And what is your miraculous solution?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second—so brief it was almost nothing.
Then he said it.
“A marriage.”
The word hit like a blunt object to the chest.
He lifted a hand before I could explode.
“A marriage of convenience,” he added, tone unchanged. “Public. Immediate. Unquestionable.”
A bitter laugh tore out of me before I could stop it.
“A marriage?” I snapped, fury rising fast. “You have to be out of your mind. After what you did to me—after everything—you stand here and say that with a straight face?”
His gray eyes narrowed. Cold. Calculating.
“You want to keep your daughter, your house, and what’s left of your dignity?” he said flatly. “Then you’re going to marry me.”
The room went too quiet.
My skin turned cold.
“Is that a proposal,” I asked, voice shaking with rage, “or a threat?”
“Both.” He stepped closer. “Do you really think I’d be standing here offering this if I had another option? This is the only move that stops the crisis immediately.” His voice dropped—dangerous, intimate in the worst way. “This isn’t an offer, Valentina. It’s your salvation.”
My stomach clenched.
He watched the reaction and kept going—because Enrico Ferrara never stopped once he found the pressure point.
“I know your situation,” he said calmly. “I know your debts. The mortgage on your bakery. On this house.” His gaze slid around the room like he already owned the air inside it. “How long do you think you can stay standing if you refuse me?”
My breath caught.
“You investigated me,” I whispered, disgust and exposure twisting together. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I did what I had to do,” he said, as if that excused anything. “And it isn’t only about money.” His eyes sharpened. “It’s about Clara.”
My heart lurched at the sound of her name in his mouth.
“If your life collapses,” he continued, “hers goes with it. And I won’t hesitate, Valentina. You took five years from me.” His voice turned colder. “Now I’ll take everything from you.”
Something in me snapped.
“You’re going to buy your daughter’s love with toys and lawyers?” I shot back, unable to believe this was real.
His mouth barely moved.
“No.” A pause. “I’m going to win it.”
Then, quieter—worse—
“And if I can’t…” His eyes held mine. “I’ll take it.”
The threat landed clean.
My vision blurred with rage and helplessness. I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back.
“Why do you always have to destroy everything?” I asked, my voice cracking with hurt I hated him for causing. “Was what you did to me not enough?”
For a second—one single second—something like discomfort flickered across his face.
Then it was gone.
He put the mask back on.
“I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he said. “I’m offering something that benefits both of us.” He took another step. “You get immediate financial security. You keep Clara out of the chaos. You get your town off your throat.”
I shook my head slowly.
He had boxed every part of my life into a corner.
And like always—like the altar, like the courtroom, like my kitchen—Enrico Ferrara was the one dictating the rules.
“You call this an offer?” I whispered, bitter. “It’s blackmail. You always play dirty.”
“Call it whatever you want.” His voice didn’t change. “I only need your answer.”
My hands trembled at my sides.
Something inside me went quiet—like a door closing.
“Fine,” I said, the word tasting like blood. “I accept.”
Enrico’s expression didn’t shift. Only his eyes sharpened, satisfied.
“But it’s a facade,” I added, forcing steel into my voice through pure hatred. “No physical contact. No emotional contact. Nothing beyond appearances.”
He nodded once, like he was finalizing a contract.
“Agreed.” His mouth curved into a cold, minimal smile. “And I expect you to perform your role convincingly, Valentina. We’ll need to look believable.”
Then he turned and left without looking back.
And I stood in the center of my own home feeling like I’d just signed away pieces of myself—again—while the man who had already shattered me once walked away with another victory tucked neatly into his pocket.
I barely had time to breathe before my life accelerated into something unreal.
Less than two hours later, strangers were inside my house.
They brought garment bags, paperwork, equipment I didn’t fully understand. People moved through my rooms like they belonged there, making decisions, touching things, rearranging my reality without asking permission.
I was too stunned to fight.
André arrived shortly after, directing everything with crisp efficiency. No warmth. No apologies. I wasn’t a person to them.
I was a necessary part.
“This has to happen quickly, Valentina,” André said, his tone controlled, eyes calculating in a way that made it obvious it ran in the family. “Tomorrow is ideal. Small ceremony. Limited guests. Controlled setting.”
“Tomorrow?” The word came out broken. “You can’t be serious.”
André didn’t blink.
“We can’t afford time,” he said simply. “Any delay gives the story room to mutate. We need a clean visual—fast.”
I stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“A small ceremony,” I repeated, forcing my brain to hold onto something. “How small?”
André’s mouth tightened into something that resembled a smile.
“Just enough to create the right image.” He shrugged, almost casual. “The narrative will be that you were keeping things private out of respect for your daughter and to avoid fueling speculation.”
“And the press will just… find out?” I asked, nausea rising.
He didn’t bother denying it.
“Correct. It has to look careful—while still looking romantic.” His gaze flicked away for a second, then back. “Enrico is prepared.”
The mention of his name made my stomach twist.
Of course he was prepared.
Enrico Ferrara was built for performance.
A woman introduced herself as a stylist—polished, expensive, impossibly efficient—and before I could protest, she was guiding me toward my bedroom as if I were a client instead of a hostage.
Trying on wedding dresses had been a dream once.
A sweet, naive dream.
Now it was a punishment.
“This one,” she said briskly, after barely a minute in front of the mirror. “Perfect.”
It was simple. Elegant. And it hugged my body like a sentence.
I stared at the reflection and didn’t recognize the woman in white.
She looked hollow.
Like someone had scraped the life out of her and dressed the shell.
“Great,” I murmured, without meaning it.
“Oh,” the stylist added as she opened a small box—diamond bright enough to hurt. “Mr. Ferrara requested this. He said it’s important you look convincing.”
Convincing.
The word turned my stomach.
I slid the ring on reluctantly. It sat heavy and wrong on my finger, like a shackle disguised as sparkle.
When the strangers finally moved out of my bedroom, I stood alone for a moment and listened to the sounds of my home being taken over. Hot tears pressed at my eyes.
I swallowed them.
Crying wouldn’t change anything.
André returned near the end with a thin envelope in his hand.
“These are the wedding details,” he said. “Time, location, guest list. You need to memorize everything. No mistakes.”
I took the envelope, my throat dry.
“And if I can’t fake it well enough?” I asked quietly, hate shaking beneath the question.
He looked at me—serious, sharp—so much like Enrico it made my skin crawl.
“I’m sure you can,” he said. “Think about what’s at stake.”
“And my daughter?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Did your brother think about that at all? Where does Clara fit into this circus he’s staging?”
André’s eyes flicked away for a fraction of a second.
Discomfort.
It was the first honest thing I’d seen from him.
“Clara will be protected,” he said at last—too smooth, too rehearsed. “She’ll be kept away from the spotlight. We’ve arranged care. Someone we trust will be with her during the ceremony.”
“That’s all?” I asked, voice rising. “You think the only danger is the media?” I took a step closer, anger finally cutting through numbness. “How do I explain to my daughter that I suddenly married a man she barely knows? Did you even consider what that does to her?”
André inhaled slowly, forcing calm.
“Valentina,” he said carefully, “I understand. But that’s something you need to take up with Enrico. It isn’t my place to decide for him.”
“Of course not.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “That would require genuine concern. And genuine concern doesn’t seem to be a Ferrara specialty.”
His jaw tightened, annoyance—or guilt—flickering briefly.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I truly am. But it’s the only way.”
“No,” I whispered, tears burning again. “It’s the easiest way—for you. Not for me. And not for my daughter.”
André’s gaze went past me, down the hallway, like he half-expected Clara to appear.
She was still asleep.
Thank God.
He was silent for a beat. Then his voice hardened slightly.
“Talk to Enrico,” he said. “I can’t promise he’ll give you what you want—but maybe you can make him see Clara differently now that you’ll be forced to coexist.”
And then he left.
The door shut behind him, and the house felt colder.
I opened the envelope slowly.
Everything was scheduled. Timed. Scripted.
Down to the exact moment we were supposed to look “surprised” when the photographers appeared.
My stomach rolled.
I sank onto the couch, numb.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I picked it up with trembling fingers.
A single message—short, precise, and exactly what I expected.
Enrico: Don’t be late tomorrow. We need to look in love. Don’t ruin this.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then I set the phone down like it burned.
Because one thing was painfully clear:
This wasn’t peace.
It was a leash.
And Enrico Ferrara had just clipped it around my neck.