HIS FORBIDDEN BRIDE

CHAPTER 16

We were happy for three days.

Three whole days after the gala where no one gossiped, no one called, no guards knocked urgently.

Maria was teaching me how to make her lemon cake. Luca was working from home more, his laptop on our bed while I read next to him. My father called every evening to argue about chess.

On the fourth morning, I woke up to Luca not in bed.

He was standing by the window, phone in his hand, his back stiff. The mafia Luca back.

My stomach dropped.

"What happened?" I asked, sitting up. I was wearing his shirt — the big white one that fell to my knees.

He turned around. His face was calm, but his eyes were not.

"Don't look at your phone today," he said.

That's when I knew it was bad.

"Luca, what happened?"

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He took my hands.

"Someone leaked photos. To a gossip blog. They are everywhere this morning."

"Photos of what?"

"Of you. Before. At your old apartment. And one from your waitressing job."

My heart started pounding. "What kind of photos?"

He showed me.

It wasn't what I thought. I thought it would be something shameful. It wasn't.

It was me, at 19, in my old uniform at the diner — hair messy, shoes with holes, carrying three plates. Me, crying outside the hospital when my father was sick. Me, at the pawn shop, handing over my mother's necklace — the only thing I had left from her.

And the last one — me, in the too-big dress on my wedding day, looking terrified, holding my father's hand while Luca stood cold and distant next to me.

The headline: *WHO IS LILA ROMANO? FROM PAWN SHOP TO MANSION: THE TRUE STORY OF LUCA ROMANO'S MYSTERY WIFE.*

The article was written like poison wrapped in pity.

_"Sources say Lila Carter, 22, worked as a waitress for $8 an hour, lived in a one-bedroom with her sick father, and sold her dead mother's jewelry to pay rent. Now she wears red diamonds and lives in a $20 million mansion. Is it love, or the most successful gold-digging story of the year? Friends of ex-fiancée Sophia Rossi say Lila's father owed money to dangerous people and Lila offered herself as payment..."_

My hands started shaking.

"They made it sound like I sold myself," I whispered.

"You didn't," Luca said fiercely. "Lila, look at me. You didn't."

"But they will think— everyone at the gala— Maria—"

"Maria already knows. She saw it at 6am. She is downstairs threatening to sue the blog herself."

I almost laughed, but tears were coming.

"They took the worst moments of my life," I said, my voice breaking. "The day I sold my mom's necklace... I cried for an hour after. And they made it... gossip."

Luca pulled me into his arms. I was still in his shirt, and his sweater was soft against my cheek.

"I'm going to find who did it," he whispered into my hair. His voice was shaking with anger. "I swear, Lila, I will—"

"It was Sophia," I said. I didn't even have to guess. "Only Sophia knew about the pawn shop. I told her once, when we pretended to be friends. She said, 'At least you have something to sell.'"

Luca went completely still.

Then he stood up.

"Stay here," he said.

"No," I said, wiping my tears fast. "No, I'm coming. I'm not hiding while people talk about me."

"Lila—"

"I'm not that girl in the photos anymore, Luca. The one who cries outside hospitals alone. I have you. I have Maria. I have my father. If they want to talk about my life, let them see me living it."

He stared at me for a long second, then nodded slowly. That proud look was back.

"That's my wife," he said.

---

Downstairs, Maria was on the phone, yelling in Italian. When she saw me, she hung up.

"Are you okay?" she asked, rushing to me.

"I'm okay," I said. And surprisingly, I was. The shaking had stopped.

"I called my lawyer. And my friend at the newspaper. We will have it taken down by noon."

"Thank you," I whispered.

She took my face in her hands. "Don't you dare be ashamed, Lila. Do you hear me? You worked. You took care of your father. You survived. That is not shameful. That is honorable. Those photos — they show a fighter. Not a gold-digger."

I nodded, tears falling again.

Then Marco came in. "Boss, there's a car outside. It's Mr. Carter."

My father?

We all went to the front door.

My father's old taxi — not Luca's big car — was at the gate. He got out slowly, his bad knee, holding a small plastic bag.

He saw me and opened his arms.

"Papa!" I ran to him, not caring I was in Luca's shirt and slippers.

He hugged me tight.

"I saw the photos," he said gruffly in my ear. "On my neighbor's phone. That stupid article."

"Papa, I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry for what?" He pulled back, holding my shoulders. "For working hard? For taking care of me? Let them talk."

He looked past me at Luca and Maria.

"Where is that husband of yours? And his mother?"

Luca stepped forward.

My father pointed at him. "You! You let them write lies about my daughter!"

Luca straightened. "Sir, I—"

"So you better fix it! Not by punching people! By showing them who she is!"

Then he looked at Maria. "And you! You are her mother now too! You tell those rich ladies that my daughter sold her mother's necklace so I could have medicine! And that she never complained once!"

Maria's eyes were wet. "I will, Joseph."

My father then lifted the plastic bag. "I brought soup. Because when people talk nonsense, you eat soup and you keep going. That's what we do."

I started laughing and crying at the same time.

We all went inside — me in Luca's shirt, my father in his best shirt again, Maria in her robe, Luca in his expensive pants but barefoot because he had rushed downstairs.

We ate soup at 9am in the big kitchen.

My father told the story of each photo.

"This one — " pointing at the waitress photo on Maria's iPad, " — she worked double shift that day because I needed new pills. She came home and her feet were bleeding. But she smiled at me."

Luca's hand under the table found mine and squeezed so hard it hurt.

"This one — pawn shop — she sold her mother's necklace. I told her not to. She said, 'Mama would want you alive more than she wants me to have a necklace.'"

Maria wiped her eyes openly.

When we finished, my father stood up.

"Now," he said to me. "You are going to get dressed in that red dress again. And you are going to go with your husband to that foundation office and you are going to give a speech. About real life. About working and surviving. And you are going to make those people who wrote that article look stupid."

I stared at him. "Papa, I can't give a speech."

"You faced Sophia at the gate," he said. "You can face anyone."

Luca looked at my father, then at me, then nodded slowly. "Your father is right."

---

At 2pm, we were at the Romano Foundation office.

Luca hadn't been able to take the article down completely — screenshots were everywhere.

But Maria had an idea. "If they want a story, we give them the real story."

So I stood in front of a small crowd — press Maria had called, some donors from the gala, my father in the front row with his cane, Maria beside him, Luca behind me, his hand lightly on my lower back.

I was not in the red dress. I wore the simple cream dress — my own — from the tea day. And the bracelet.

"I saw the photos this morning," I said, my voice shaking at first, then stronger. "They are me. I did work at a diner. I did live in a one-bedroom with my father. I did sell my mother's necklace to pay his hospital bill."

The room was silent.

"I was not ashamed then, and I am not ashamed now. My father taught me that work is not shameful. Taking care of family is not shameful. Surviving is not shameful."

I looked at the reporters.

"If you want to write about me, write that. Write that Luca Romano did not marry a gold-digger. He married a waitress who knew the price of everything because she had nothing. And he married her because she told him the truth when no one else would."

I felt Luca's hand slide a little higher on my back, warm through the dress.

"And write that my father is here. And he is proud of me. And I am proud of him."

My father stood up and clapped. Loudly. Alone at first. Then Maria clapped. Then Luca. Then the whole room.

Flashbulbs went off. But this time, I wasn't scared.

After, in the car going home, I was exhausted. I leaned my head on Luca's shoulder.

"You were incredible," he whispered, his lips in my hair.

"I was scared."

"I know," he said, his arm around me, pulling me close. The car was private, driver partition up. "But you did it anyway."

He tilted my chin up.

"Can I kiss my very brave wife now?" he asked, his voice low, that soft voice again.

"Maria and my father are in the other car," I whispered, blushing.

"Good. That means they can't see if I do this."

He kissed me — slow, deep, his hand cupping my cheek, his other hand pulling me onto his lap in the backseat despite the dress. Not rushed. Like we had all the time in the world and no gossip blog could touch us.

"Luca..." I breathed against his mouth.

"Hmm?"

"We're still in the car."

"I know," he murmured, smiling against my lips, his thumb tracing my jaw. "That's why I'm being good. If we were home... I wouldn't be good at all."

My cheeks went bright red.

"Luca Romano!"

He laughed, that real laugh from Sunday, and hugged me tight, bracelet clinking against his watch.

Outside, the city passed by. Phones would still be buzzing with photos.

But inside the car, it was just us. And I had never felt more like a Romano wife in my life.