The slow melody of the ballroom wove through the air, wrapping around me like a soft, suffocating blanket as my father and I swayed gently to the rhythm.
My eyes flicked toward Santo, who, much to my surprise, was engaged in conversation with a guest nearby. He actually was mingling—something entirely out of character for the stone-cold heir everyone whispered about.
"Papá?" I ventured, my voice barely above the music.
"Hmm?" he replied without missing a beat as we spun slowly.
"Do I really have to live with him?" The words tumbled out like a plea, though I knew the answer already.
He paused mid-step, his gaze locking onto mine with a raised brow. "Of course. You're married to him now."
"But I heard some girls talking—"
He cut me off as the music shifted and he pulled me closer again. "Emilia, the only regret I have in raising you is that I may have made you too dependent. I wanted to shield you, make sure you never lacked anything."
"Pa—" I started, but he didn’t let me finish.
"You're twenty years old, Emilia. It’s time to stand on your own, to be independent. You’re married. That means you will live with your husband."
My heart sank, but I swallowed my protests, biting back the frustration that twisted in my chest.
"Santo is your husband," he repeated firmly, finishing the sentence I couldn’t.
I remained silent, the weight of inevitability pressing down on me. No one seemed to hear the hesitation in my voice, the fear beneath my defiance.
"You won’t see us often," he continued as the song drew to a close, "since Santo lives on the other side of the country. But we’re always just a phone call away. I love you, Emmy."
"I love you, too, Papá," I whispered, feeling the warmth of his kiss on my forehead.
Hand in hand, he guided me toward Santo, who waited with a calm, unreadable expression, his dark eyes unflinchingly locked on mine.
As we reached him, my father released my hand with a nod. "Take care of her," he ordered, his voice low but firm.
Santo’s lips quirked into a half-smile, laced with challenge. "We’ll see about that."
I caught the flicker of controlled anger in my father’s eyes, a silent storm barely contained. "Santo, this is my daughter." He gestured toward me.
Santo sighed, nodding once. "I’ll try," he said quietly. The hesitation in his voice sent a shiver through me.
My mother, Uncle Seb, and Bella approached, each carrying their own mixture of sorrow and hope.
Uncle Seb enveloped me in a tight embrace. "Take care, little one," he murmured. His affection felt like a protective shield, a strength I could cling to.
Bella stepped forward, her eyes glistening as she hugged me. "If you ever need marriage advice, you know where I am."
I chuckled softly. "I think I’ll be needing a crash course."
She sniffled, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. "Maybe I’m crying because I’m going to miss my best friend."
"Bella? Are you really crying?" I asked, surprised.
She frowned playfully but then hugged me again. "Yeah, it sucks losing you."
Finally, my mother opened her arms, and I ran into them without hesitation.
"Emilia," she whispered, holding me close. "I’m going to miss your endless antics."
"And I’m going to miss annoying you," I replied, clinging to her like a lifeline.
I didn’t want to let go. Not yet.
"Your Uncle Haze and Aunt Eve couldn’t make it—Eve went into labor," Mom said softly, pulling back to smile at me. "They had a baby girl. I’m flying to America tomorrow to help."
A genuine smile blossomed on my lips. At least one joyful thing had come from this day.
I stepped back, taking in the sorrowful eyes of my family. If I lingered any longer, the tears would betray me.
I turned to Santo. "I’m ready."
He gave a curt nod to my family and began walking away. I waved to them one last time before catching up to him.
As we stepped outside, a cold wind bit at my skin, the night sky above dotted with a canopy of sparkling stars. It had been a long time since the heavens shone so bright.
A fleeting smile touched my lips before Santo’s voice cut through the quiet. "Are you coming or not?"
The smile vanished instantly. I lowered my gaze, shooting him a glare.
My eyes widened when I realized he was holding open the door to a sleek, black Rolls Royce. The car gleamed under the streetlights—he had impeccable taste, at least in vehicles.
He gestured for me to enter. With careful steps to accommodate my heavy dress, I slid into the plush leather interior.
He closed the door behind me, then moved around to the driver’s seat, igniting the engine.
I must have startled him because he paused, glancing my way.
"What?" he asked, impatience creeping into his voice.
I stared out the windshield, then finally spoke. "I’m just surprised the infamous Santo Valentino drives himself. I always thought you’d be the type to command others.”
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and piercing. "And you’re the princess who had everything handed to her," he retorted bitterly.
I turned toward him, defiance flaring. "I didn’t have everything handed to me."
He rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Believe what you want, kid. But let me make one thing clear—you won’t get your way with me."
"Kid? We’re practically the same age," I shot back.
"I’m twenty-six," he said coolly. I fell silent, the weight of his age settling between us.
"It’s bad enough I have to marry you; don’t act like a spoiled princess," he added, voice low but cutting.
"Stop calling me that," I snapped, heat rising in my chest. He slammed the brakes abruptly, the car coming to a sudden halt.
My heart hammered against my ribs as he swiveled to face me fully, eyes blazing.
"That’s exactly what you are—a spoiled princess who thinks she deserves everything."
"And you’re a rude asshole who believes he can treat everyone like dirt," I fired back, fists clenched tight enough to whiten my knuckles. "I don’t like you."
He turned away sharply, gripping the steering wheel as he resumed driving.
"Oh yeah? Well, I’m not exactly a fan of you, either." His voice was flat, yet carried a veiled sting.
I twisted to face the window, swallowing the bitter taste of anger swirling in my throat.
My nails dug into my palm until the sting turned sharp and one cracked beneath the pressure.
"Ah," I whispered, wincing at the pain.
Never before had anyone unsettled me so thoroughly—no one had ever managed to push my buttons like this.
I hated how easily he provoked me, how quickly my composure unraveled in his presence.
I hated his sharp, cutting remarks and the fortress of indifference he wore like armor.
I hated how he could look so flawless on the outside—tall, dark, commanding—but inside, he was a mess of anger and pain.
Most of all, I hated that I knew almost nothing about him, yet he seemed to know everything about me.
I hated Santo Valentino with every fiber of my being.