The one that got away

Chapter Five

The morning sunlight hit the villa like a spotlight, mocking me as I stared at my reflection.

White. Lace. Pearls. Satin. All the things my father insisted I wear to “honor tradition.” I wanted to rip it off, throw it at the nearest servant, and run out into the city like I’d done a hundred times before. But today wasn’t about freedom. It was about duty. A word I’d come to despise.

Sofia hovered nearby, fussing over my hair. Her sun-kissed fingers smoothed stray strands as if they could somehow make me more… like the rest of our family. “You look beautiful,” she said softly. Her eyes held worry beneath that practiced smile. “Don’t let anyone get to you.”

I wanted to tell her she had no idea what she was in for. That this day wasn’t about beauty—it was about stepping into the mouth of a lion and hoping you don’t get eaten.

My mother was extra annoying today aswell, “flowers where are the flowers!” or “Oh my God my little girl is getting married!” where phrases i never wanted to hear again. Faffing around with my hair, pushing my breasts up in my dress to “make them look more feminine” (insulting by the way I have lovely breasts)

The car ride to the Romano estate was quiet, each turn of the wheels feeling like the ticking of a clock counting down to my fate. My parents tried to talk, tried to calm me, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about him.

The Romano son.

I remembered the dinner—the way he leaned against that desk, the smirk that never left his face, the way he seemed to enjoy riling me up more than anyone should enjoy anything. And I hated that I’d remembered. Hated that part of me had wanted to see him again.

When we arrived, the estate had transformed. Flags of both families lined the driveway. Guards, more numerous than the flowers, stood at attention. The world outside was shut away. There was no escape.

I stepped from the car, my heels clicking against the stone like a countdown. And there he was. Waiting.

Not in the smirked, teasing way from dinner. Now, he looked like a king. Tailored suit, eyes dark and unreadable, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t smile. Not yet. But the intensity in his gaze made me catch my breath.

Papa took my hand, squeezing it. “Angelina.”

I nodded, pretending not to tremble. “Yes, Papa.”

The ceremony was brief, a blur of words and vows that felt heavier than any sentence I’d ever heard. Every promise I made echoed in my chest like a warning siren.

When it came time to face him, I kept my head high. I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me nervous.

He extended his hand—not a smile, not a word—just a measured offer of touch. I took it, deliberately cold.

His fingers closed over mine like iron. And just like that, the world narrowed to the space between us.

“You look… dangerous,” he said, voice low, only I could hear. A ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes.

“I am dangerous,” I shot back, letting my words drip with venom and challenge.

He didn’t flinch. In fact, I thought I saw a flicker of excitement. Maybe even… approval.

The priest’s voice blurred in the background as we exchanged rings. Everything felt surreal—the cheers, the flashes of cameras, the smiles from parents who thought they were securing peace. But I knew better. I felt the storm simmering beneath the surface, between the two of us.

After the ceremony, as we walked through the garden, he leaned just close enough for me to feel his warmth. “I hope you’re ready,” he said, his lips just inches from my ear. “Because this is going to be fun. For both of us.”

I stiffened. Dangerous, unpredictable, and infuriating—but I couldn’t deny the truth: I was ready.

Not for love. Not yet. But for the war.

The Romano son might think he knew what he was getting, but he hadn’t met me yet.

And I intended to remind him of that… every single day.”