he chapel smells like old incense and older secrets.
I stand before the altar in a simple black dress—no veil, no pretense of virginal white. The Moretti estate chapel is smaller than I expected, almost intimate, with stained-glass windows that cast fractured light across worn stone floors. This isn't where the wedding will happen. That spectacle is still days away, meant for the world to see.
This? This is something else entirely.
Something that matters more.
Lorenzo waits for me at the altar, dressed in all black like he's attending a funeral. Maybe he is. The death of whatever freedom either of us had left. His face is unreadable in the candlelight, all sharp angles and shadows, but his eyes track my every step as I walk down the short aisle alone.
No father t
