“To the wedding,” Marello said, his eyes darkening to obsidian. “But we aren’t going to get married. We are going to burn the lies to the ground.”
The ride to the Vitali estate was a blur of silence and tension. When we arrived, the ballroom was filled with the city’s elite. Isabella sat at the head of the dais, radiant in silk and diamonds, waiting for the arrival of her ‘perfect’ successor, Bianca.
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Marello walked into the center of the ballroom, his hand firmly holding Leo’s, while I walked by his side. The music died instantly. The silence was deafening. Isabella rose, her smile freezing as her eyes landed on Leo—the living, breathing evidence of her treachery.