The fitting room was massive; white walls, tall mirrors, chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen tears. Dresses lined the racks in shades of ivory, gold, black, red.
Wedding colors.
A reminder of what I was about to become.
Luca clasped his hands together dramatically. "Today, we choose the dress for your debut."
"Debut?" I echoed.
Adrian entered behind me, answering first. "The world will see us together. As a married couple."
"It'll look suspicious," I said tightly. "We're suddenly married out of nowhere."
He didn't blink. "Not if we control the story."
"And what is the story?" I asked.
He stepped in front of me, his presence like a gravitational pull I didn't want but couldn't avoid.
"That we met months ago," he said. "Quietly. Privately. And that you want to keep your personal life—your past—out of the spotlight."
"My past," I repeated slowly, "or my father?"
"Both."
I didn't argue. I couldn't.
The first dress Luca held up was champagne silk with a slit up the leg.
"Too bold," Adrian said immediately.
"This is not up to you," I snapped.
Adrian didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Everything involving you is up to me now."
That sentence tasted like poison.
I ripped the dress from Luca's hands and went into the changing room, slamming the door before Adrian could follow. My hands shook as I zipped the dress up. When I stepped out, Luca gasped. "Bellissima."
Adrian didn't gasp.
But something changed in his eyes.
A stillness.
A quiet hunger.
Cold and hot at the same time.
"It's fine," he said, voice rougher than before. "Try the next."
The second dress was a long, backless satin piece—white with a shimmer of gold under the lights. It hugged every curve.
His jaw clenched.
"That one," he said immediately.
Luca beamed. "Yes, yes—this is the one."
I stared at myself in the mirror. I barely recognized the woman staring back. She looked polished, composed, like she belonged in Adrian Vassari's world.
But the tremble beneath her ribs said otherwise.
"Why this one?" I asked softly.
Adrian stepped behind me, meeting my reflection in the mirror. "Because you look untouchable in it."
A chill rippled through me.
"Is that what you want your wife to be?" I whispered.
"No."
His voice softened.
"I want them to think you are."
Something twisted in my chest. Not affection. Not fear. Something between.
A knock on the door cut the moment.
Clara peeked in. "They're ready for you two in the photography studio."
I blinked. "Photography?"
"For the announcement," Adrian said. "Couples photos."
"I'm not ready."
"You have to be."
Before I could protest, he took my hand with a grip that said this was happening whether I liked it or not.
We walked into the studio, cameras waiting, lights casting a soft glow across the space. The photographer gestured for us to stand together.
"Closer," she said.
Adrian slid his arm around my waist. My breath hitched—annoyance, resentment, and a spark of something I refused to name.
"Closer," she repeated.
His hand pressed against the small of my back. I stiffened.
"Relax," he murmured.
"You're touching me."
"That's the point."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Pose after pose, the photographer kept pushing us nearer; my hand on his chest, his fingers brushing my jaw, our bodies angled like lovers.
"You need to look at him," the photographer said. "Like you belong to each other."
My glare shot daggers.
Adrian's lips curled slightly. "Try," he murmured.
I raised my chin and looked at him. really looked at him. The sharp jaw, the cold grey eyes, the unreadable calm.
I hated him.
And that emotion burned bright enough to mimic passion.
The photographer nearly squealed. "Yes! That's it!"
Adrian smirked. He knew.
He knew exactly what expression he was dragging out of me.
When the session ended, I pulled away instantly.
He caught my wrist firmly.
"Tomorrow night," he said, "you wear that dress."
"And do what?"
"Stand beside me. Smile. Play the role."
"And if I don't?"
He stepped close, the warmth of his breath brushing my cheek.
"Your brother," he whispered, "stays alive because you obey. Don't forget that."
I exhaled shakily.
He leaned back slightly, eyes dropping to my lips before lifting again.
"You did well today," he said.
It wasn't praise.
It was possession.
"I wasn't trying to impress you," I murmured.
A slow, knowing smirk ghosted across his mouth.
"You didn't."
He paused.
"But you impressed everyone else."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving me in the spotlight, heart pounding, the dress suddenly feeling too tight.
And for the first time, a terrifying thought crept in:
I wasn't just wearing his name.
It was starting to wear me.