DELUCA

SIX

Eleanor had grown used to cherishing the moments she spent with Francesco, but now, standing next to him in the bar, her mood sank as she saw him shut down completely.

Just minutes ago, they'd been laughing, exchanging flirtations. Now his expression had gone cold, all because of the woman in front of them—Jemma. Eleanor had heard of her from Enzo, and seeing her now, the tension between her and Francesco was unmistakable.

Jemma's lips, painted a sharp red, curled into an unsettlingly sincere smile. "I thought that was you standing here," she said smoothly, her voice like silk over daggers. "I didn't mean to impose." Her dress was deep green, revealing just enough to showcase her hourglass figure, drawing eyes wherever she walked.

Eleanor had imagined her to be fierce, perhaps a spitfire like Giselle, but she was the opposite—deliberately poised and calm, with dark mahogany hair that cascaded past her shoulders and steely grey eyes that barely masked her cunning.

Caught in the uncomfortable silence, Eleanor forced a polite smile. "Eleanor," she introduced herself, extending her hand. Jemma's eyes lingered on Eleanor's hand for a beat too long before taking it with a slow, deliberate grip.

"Eleanor?" Jemma echoed, her voice sweet yet unnerving, "Such a beautiful name."

The tension between the three of them was thick, and before Eleanor could respond, Francesco, ever the shield, finally spoke up. "Jemma, this is my fiancée, Eleanor."

Eleanor could practically feel Jemma's façade crack for a split second, though her smile only grew wider. The mention of their engagement had hit a nerve. Good.

The bartender, sensing Jemma's arrival, came over to take their orders.

"Vodka soda, please," Jemma said coolly, accepting the seat offered by a nearby patron who scrambled away as if her presence alone demanded obedience.

Eleanor barely suppressed an eye roll, sipping from her drink as the bartender turned to her and Francesco. Francesco waved him off, but Eleanor raised her glass with a grin. "Jack and Coke, please."

Francesco stood stiff, clearly unhappy with the entire situation.

Meanwhile, Jemma, ever the master of subtle digs, leaned in. "Francesco, I had no idea you were getting married. How did you two meet?"

"A museum," Francesco replied curtly, not even bothering to elaborate.

"You've never been one for art," Jemma said, her voice laced with nostalgia, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

"I've changed since we last spoke."

"In the past two months?" Jemma's smile faltered just slightly, "You haven't changed that much in the three years we were together."

Two months ago? Eleanor frowned, her mind racing. What were they doing two months ago? The cryptic timelines left her uncomfortable.

Eleanor's unease deepened as Jemma's practiced charm began to unravel, her irritation barely contained beneath the surface. Enzo, thankfully, interrupted the tension as he swaggered up with a wince. "How long are we staying here? My head is killing me," he grumbled before his eyes landed on Jemma. "Gesù Cristo!"

"Hello, Enzo," Jemma responded dryly, her previous charm evaporating.

"You show up anywhere like you're summoned by some dark force," Enzo muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. His arrival, though rude, gave Eleanor enough space to breathe.

Jemma, perhaps sensing that she wasn't going to win any favors here, finally stood. "Eleanor, I'll make sure Cara has my number. We'll be in touch," she said, her voice dripping with false politeness. Eleanor offered a tight-lipped smile, mentally vowing that Jemma's involvement in her wedding—real or fake—would never happen.

Once Jemma slinked away, Eleanor let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "So," she quipped, trying to lighten the mood, "how many exes can I expect to approach us in public?"

Francesco's jaw clenched, his drink untouched. "She's the only one."

"She must be the worst, considering how your mood shifted so fast."

"Jemma has a way of doing that," Francesco said quietly, a heavy apology in his tone.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Eleanor reassured, though she could sense his walls firmly back up. "We've all got exes we wish we could forget."

Francesco's eyes flicked up, intrigued. "Oh? And who's yours?"

"Oh, no one here in Italy, that's for sure." Eleanor chuckled softly, a tinge of old pain in her voice. "There was someone in high school—Wyatt. He got controlling and abusive, but I got out fast. After that, I swore off dating."

"And now you're getting married," Francesco said with a wry smile.

Eleanor shrugged, "Funny how things turn out." She sipped her drink before continuing, "But looks don't matter. Wyatt still tried to break me."

Francesco leaned in, his woodsy cologne intoxicatingly close. "Looks matter, Eleanor. Men like that look at you and think they can take. They're drawn to you, to the way you carry yourself."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what about the way I look?"

His eyes burned with intensity. "You have a beauty that transcends—your body, the way you move, the way those clothes Giselle bought fit you so perfectly." His gaze traveled down her figure, making her shiver under its weight. "But it's your eyes that are the most dangerous—they see right through people."

His hand found hers, wrapping around her ring finger. "But with a ring on your finger, no one knows you're mine."

Eleanor's breath hitched at the possessive way he spoke. His words were a purr, sending a rush of heat down her spine. The way he leaned in, his lips inches from her ear, his breath hot against her skin, made the world around them disappear.

"We'll fix that tomorrow," Francesco said, pulling back, his eyes lingering on her flushed face before turning back to his drink. Just as Eleanor fought to regain her composure, Francesco's cousin, Andreas, sauntered over.

"Am I interrupting?" Andreas grinned, clearly noticing the red tinge on Eleanor's cheeks. Francesco, unaffected, snapped back to reality. "What do you need, Andreas?"

As Francesco and Andreas drifted off into conversation, Eleanor finished her drink, her mind still spinning. She watched Francesco's retreating form, realizing with a sinking heart that resisting this man was going to take a miracle.