Sara Ikari Rodriguez
I stood in front of the grand staircase, blinking into the camera lens as the photographer adjusted his lights for what felt like the twentieth time. My dress, a soft mauve silk piece chosen by Maria, clung to me in ways that felt far too elegant for how I actually felt—tense, out of place, and way too visible.
Matio stood beside me in a sharp charcoal suit, looking like he belonged in every magazine cover ever published. Calm. Confident. Effortlessly composed.
And I was pretending to be his love story.
“Lean in a little, Mrs. Rodriguez,” the photographer said.
I did.
“Now look at him.”
I turned, meeting Matio’s eyes. They were unreadable for a beat. Then he smiled—not the cold, press smile. Something... softer.
His hand slid around my waist.
“You okay?” he mu
