I had imagined my wedding day a thousand times when I was a little girl.
Not in the way other girls did.
There were no fantasies of princes arriving on white horses or glittering tiaras catching the sunlight. I had never been foolish enough to believe in fairy tales. Growing up as Enzo Vitali’s daughter taught me early that love was rarely simple and almost never safe.
Still, I had allowed myself one quiet dream.
If I ever married, I wanted it to be for love.
For the kind of love that revealed itself in small moments rather than grand gestures. Shared laughter over midnight dinners. Fingers intertwined beneath a restaurant table. Soft kisses in the kitchen while pasta simmered on the stove. The certainty that the man standing beside me saw me, not as an asset, but as a woman he could
