Chapter 3
Paola
The mansion where the reception was taking place rose before me like something from another century—all white columns and manicured lawns, windows blazing with warm light against the darkening Hamptons sky.
Three stories of old money and older power.
It was familiar, vaguely, from my childhood.
One of the many homes my father owned but never took Bianca and I to.
As I stared up at it, it should’ve been impressive–but it felt more like I was facing my own crypt.
My legs shook as I stepped from the limo.
The two hour drive from Manhattan to the Hamptons had my muscles cramping.
Cesare's hand found my elbow—steadying or claiming, I couldn't tell. Both, probably. But I needed it; even hours later, whatever drugs Bianca had given me left my brain feeling foggy and my body weak. I wasn’t sure how I’d make it through the evening.
"Smile," he murmured.
I did. Felt my face crack like porcelain.
Cameras flashed. Voices called congratulations.
Someone threw rose petals that caught in my hair, the veil, the ridiculous train of this dress I'd never chosen. I could feel Bianca’s taste in how it hugged my waist and pressed my breasts up.
Despite being her twin, I felt completely out of place in this life she’d chosen and then discarded.
This is a nightmare. This isn't real. People don't get forced into marriages in the 21st century. This doesn't happen.
But the ring on my finger—heavy platinum, with diamond so large it caught every ray of dying sunlight—said otherwise. In the limo, Cesare had texted his lawyer–had the names on the marriage certificate updated, so it truly was legal.
We moved through massive doors into an entrance hall that belonged in Versailles.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors.
Ice sculptures of swans guarded a champagne tower that must have been twelve feet tall.
White roses everywhere—in vases, in garlands, petals scattered across every surface like snow.
An orchestra played something classical and romantic. Guests in designer gowns and tuxedos mingled, champagne flutes catching the light.
Everything white and gold. Elegant. Expensive.
Suffocating.
Cesare's hand moved to my lower back. To anyone watching, the gesture looked solicitous—a new husband unable to stop touching his bride.
I felt the warning in his touch: Behave.
"The receiving line," he said quietly. "We greet every guest personally. Follow my lead."
We positioned ourselves near the entrance—me in this architectural nightmare of a dress, him looking criminally handsome in his tailored tuxedo. A perfect couple. A complete lie.
The first guest approached—a woman in her sixties dripping diamonds like she'd bathed in them, dark hair swept into an elaborate updo.
"Bianca, cara, you look stunning! And Cesare, you've done well for yourself!"
She knew me. Or thought she did. Expected me to know her back.
I froze.
My mind went blank. Who was this woman? How did Bianca know her? What was I supposed to say?
Cesare's arm tightened around my waist. "Aunt Francesca, you’re too kind. My wife is still overwhelmed by the day."
The emphasis on "my wife" felt like a brand pressed to skin. But Cesare must’ve realized the problem with having me greet the guests at his side–he’d found a way to slip her name into the conversation, to give me a hint of who was who.
Francesca laughed—warm, genuine. She kissed both my cheeks, leaving lipstick marks I'd have to fix later. "Of course, tesoro. Such a beautiful ceremony. Your mother would be so proud, Cesare."
She moved on. I exhaled.
Cesare's lips found my ear again. "Don't speak unless you have to. Smile. Nod. Let me handle conversation."
A kindness and a reminder of powerlessness wrapped in the same breath.
The line continued. A blur of faces—men with cruel eyes and expensive watches, women with surgical smiles and assessing gazes. Everyone air-kissed, congratulated, commented on the dress, the venue, the flowers.
I smiled until my cheeks ached. Nodded until my neck cramped. Let Cesare guide every interaction while I stood there like a beautiful, useless prop that was slowly deflating.
"Marco, good to see you. Yes, she's lovely. Thank you."
"Salvatore, your gift was generous. We'll have to discuss that shipment next week."
"Mrs. De Luca, you look radiant. Yes, the roses were my choice."
He was performing. Masterfully. Every word calculated, every gesture deliberate.
I watched him work and realized I had no idea who Cesare Monti actually was beneath the performance.
Then a man who looked like a younger version of my new husband approached.
Same dark hair, same build—tall and broad-shouldered, moving with that predatory grace that seemed genetic. But his eyes were brown instead of gray, and something warmer lived behind them.
"Big brother, congratulations." He smiled at Cesare but looked at me with open curiosity.
Cesare's posture shifted—slightly less rigid. "Paola, this is Piero. My brother and underboss."
I froze, catching the mistake–he’d used my real name, not my sister’s. But Piero didn’t flinch; his smile didn’t falter. He only said in a low, warm voice, "Welcome to the family, cognata." Sister-in-law.
His handshake was gentle. His eyes assessed but didn't judge.
Piero knew. He hadn’t been surprised when he heard my name, which meant Cesare had told him somehow, but that was impossible. I’d been at his side since the altar–when he realized who I was. Or wasn’t. He hadn’t had time to tell his brother, which meant Piero must have figured it out on his own.
How many others knew I wasn't Bianca? How long before everyone knew?
Part of me wanted the charade to collapse—wanted someone to expose the truth and free me from this nightmare.
But Father's words echoed: People die.
If the deception came out now, in front of three hundred witnesses, the alliance would shatter. Viktor would move. Blood would spill.
And it would be my fault.
The paranoia wrapped around my throat like hands.
Midway through the line—after countless strangers, countless lies—a man approached who made every instinct I had scream danger.
He was tall and blonde, with ice-blue eyes that tracked movement like a snake watching prey. Eastern European accent, probably Russian.
"Cesare. Congratulations on your beautiful bride."
The way he said "beautiful" made my skin crawl.
Cesare's hand turned to iron against my back. A warning. "Viktor. I'm surprised you came."
"Wouldn't miss it. Peace between our families is so... important."
Viktor's smile belonged on a corpse.
He took my hand—I couldn't pull away without causing a scene—and brought it to his lips. The kiss lingered. His mouth was cold.
"You are lucky man, Cesare. She is... exquisite."
I felt examined. Evaluated. Like livestock at auction.
Viktor looked directly at me. "I hope this marriage brings you everything you deserve, Mrs. Monti."
Subtext I didn't understand crackled beneath the words. But Cesare understood—his entire body had gone rigid, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
After Viktor left, Cesare murmured: "Stay away from that man. If he approaches you again, find me immediately."
The first protective thing he'd said all day.
I didn't know if I should feel grateful or more terrified.
The receiving line finally, mercifully ended. My feet screamed in these heels. My face ached from smiling.
"Dinner is served," someone announced.
But first: the first dance.
Of course. Because this nightmare wasn't complete without forced intimacy for three hundred witnesses.
The orchestra began a slow waltz, romantic and utterly at odds with reality.
Cesare led me to the center of the dance floor. His hand settled on my waist—proprietary, confident. My hand in his—swallowed by his size, his strength.
This close, I could smell his cologne now—expensive, woody, distinctly masculine. Could feel the heat of his body through the layers of fabric between us, the controlled power in the way he led.
He was an excellent dancer. Of course he was. Men like Cesare excelled at everything.
We moved in perfect rhythm. To everyone watching, we were a fairytale.
I was acutely, painfully aware of the crowd. The cameras. The performance.
"Your father knew about the switch?" Cesare's voice was quiet—only I could hear over the music.
"Yes." My throat felt tight. "He said it didn't matter which daughter married you. As long as the alliance held."
His jaw clenched. I felt it more than saw it—we were too close for me to see much beyond his shoulder, his throat, the sharp line of his jaw.
"And Bianca? Did she plan this?"
"I don't know. I thought... I thought we were having sister time. I hadn’t really heard from her in months. She drugged the champagne. That's all I remember until this morning."
Silence. He was processing, calculating. I could practically hear the gears turning.
"Do you know anything about this arrangement? The terms? The reasons?"
"Not really… I knew she was engaged, and that it was business, not…” The words caught in my throat at I glanced up, his dark eyes making something in me go hot “...not love. But I didn’t know the wedding was today. Not until I woke up in her dress.”
More silence. His thumb traced a small circle on my waist—unconscious or deliberate? I couldn't tell.
"You work at a gallery?"
The question surprised me. We were discussing business arrangements and family betrayals, and he wanted to know about my job?
"Yes. Chelsea. Contemporary art mostly, but I specialize in Renaissance."
"Renaissance." Something in his tone—amusement? "How... cultured."
I bristled. Tired, terrified, trapped—but not stupid. "I have a Master's from Columbia. I'm not some idiot."
His hand tightened on my waist. Warning or appreciation?
"I can see that."
The music swelled. We turned. My dress swirled around us like a white storm.