Married, Divorced and Pregnant

Isabella's POV Florence had always felt like a dream painted in sunlight. The terracotta rooftops glowed under the Tuscan sun, and the air was rich with the scent of blooming wisteria and fresh bread drifting from family-owned bakeries along cobblestone streets. To the world, it was a city of history and art. To me, today, it was the stage of my greatest fantasy. My wedding day. The bridal suite at Palazzo Vecchio overlooked the Arno River, its waters shimmering like silk. My family spared no expense—of course, they wouldn’t. The Romanos had always been one of Florence’s oldest and wealthiest families, their name whispered with reverence in wine estates and business circles alike. Today, our prestige intertwined with the Bianchi, one of Italy’s most powerful dynasties. The marriage wasn’t just love—it was legacy. Still, to me, it was more than alliance or arrangement. It was Lorenzo. The first time I saw him—years ago at a charity gala where our fathers shook hands like kings finalising a treaty—I had been lost. Lorenzo Bianchi, with his sharp jawline, raven-dark hair, and a smile that seemed carved by fate. While he carried the aloofness of a man too used to the world bending around him, I had noticed something deeper in his eyes that night. A quiet sadness, a weight. And I had sworn, naïve as it sounded, that I would be the woman to bring warmth to his shadows. Now, five years later, I stood ready to become his wife. As the bridal stylist pinned the final pearl comb into my hair, I stared at my reflection in the gilded mirror. The gown was an exquisite ivory masterpiece—layers of silk and lace hugging me in delicate grace. The veil cascaded like mist down my shoulders. I looked every inch the bride Florence expected, every inch the fairy-tale I had rehearsed in my heart since girlhood. “Signorina Romano,” the coordinator whispered with reverence. “It’s time.” My heart fluttered, not with fear but with a fierce kind of joy. The grand doors of the cathedral opened, and the world blurred. Guests rose in unison, their designer gowns and sharp tuxedos a sea of wealth and influence. The organ thundered with solemn beauty, and I walked down the aisle, clutching my bouquet of white roses and peonies. And then—him. Lorenzo stood at the altar in a tailored suit, immovable as marble. His dark eyes locked on me, and for one breathtaking second, I swore the universe stilled. He wasn’t smiling, not quite. But there was something in his gaze—something unreadable, something that made my heart both race and ache. “Ready, mia bella?” my father whispered, offering me his arm. His grip was firm, his eyes proud, though the fine lines at the corners betrayed his age. I nodded, unable to find my voice. The cathedral blurred as I stepped forward, each stride in my satin heels echoing like a promise. My veil floated around me like a mist, catching the glimmer of chandeliers above. Every step brought me closer to Lorenzo, yet the nearer I drew, the more I noticed the stiffness in his posture. His jaw was clenched, his lips pressed into a straight line. His gray eyes—those eyes I had once sworn held the entire universe—were devoid of warmth. Still, I smiled. Because love was enough. My love was enough. When we reached the altar, my father placed my hand into Lorenzo’s. His palm was cool, almost cold, though my own burned with nervous heat. For a moment, I thought I felt him twitch—as if the contact unsettled him. But then the priest’s voice rose, solemn and commanding, and the moment was swept away. The ceremony blurred into fragments. Do you, Isabella Romano, take this man… I do. My voice was steady, though tears stung my eyes. Do you, Lorenzo Bianchi, take this woman… There was the briefest pause—so slight it could have been imagined. Then, in a clipped tone that betrayed nothing, he answered: I do. The congregation erupted in applause, and the choir burst into song. Lorenzo leaned down, brushing his lips against mine in the briefest of kisses. It was chaste, mechanical, as if he kissed the air itself rather than his wife. Yet the crowd roared as though they had witnessed the kiss of true love. And me? I pretended. I convinced myself that perhaps he was simply overwhelmed, that perhaps the gravity of the moment had stolen the tenderness from him. That later, when the cameras were gone and we were alone, I would feel the warmth I longed for. Because wasn’t that what every fairytale promised? That love would blossom, even if it began in silence? This was my fairy tale. And I would fight to make it last. *** The reception was a blur of laughter and champagne. Crystal chandeliers glittered above us as the grand hall of the Bianchi villa overflowed with guests. Toasts were made in our honor, glasses raised, violins playing melodies of passion and eternity. Strangers congratulated me, calling me the luckiest woman alive. And I smiled, smiled until my cheeks ached, even as I noticed how Lorenzo’s arm around me felt more like a formality than affection. He spoke politely to guests, his deep voice steady, his smile sharp but calculated. He never once looked at me the way I looked at him—with adoration, with reverence, with the kind of devotion that made my chest ache. Hours later, when the festivities faded and the villa fell quiet, I stood in our suite, the moonlight spilling through sheer curtains. My wedding gown lay discarded on a chaise, and I stood in delicate silk, my heart hammering as I awaited him. When Lorenzo entered, his tuxedo jacket already loosened, I felt my breath catch. He was devastatingly handsome, every angle of his face sculpted by shadows and silver light. He closed the door behind him, and for a fleeting moment, I thought—hoped—that he would finally look at me not as an obligation but as a wife. “Lorenzo,” I whispered, stepping toward him. My fingers grazed his sleeve, tracing the firm line of muscle beneath. “We’re married now.” His eyes flickered to mine, unreadable, stormy gray oceans that gave away nothing. He inhaled, exhaled, and for a heartbeat I thought he might pull me into his arms. Instead, he stepped back. “You should rest,” he said flatly. “It’s been a long day.” The words sliced deeper than any blade. Rest? On our wedding night? I forced a smile, though my throat burned. “Yes… it has.” He turned away, undoing his cufflinks with practiced ease, his broad back to me as though I were nothing more than a shadow. I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, my chest aching with unspoken questions. Did he not love me? Did he not want me? Was it nerves, or something deeper? I curled onto my side, tears slipping into my pillow. But even as doubt gnawed at me, I whispered into the darkness: “He will love me. He has to.” Because I had given him my heart, my name, my soul. And fairytales don’t end before they even begin.