Chapter 3: The Vows of a Liar

The Cathedral in Florence was breathtaking. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in shades of ruby and gold. To the hundreds of guests and the flashing cameras of the paparazzi, it was the wedding of the century.

Eimi stood at the altar, her body hidden beneath layers of exquisite white lace. Her veil was so long it required two bridesmaids to carry, but to her, it felt like a heavy shroud.

Marco stood beside her, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal-grey tuxedo. His face was a mask of calm perfection, but as he reached out to take her hand for the ring ceremony, his grip was firm and cold.

"You're shaking, Princess," Marco whispered, his voice so low only she could hear it over the priest's Latin chanting. "Try to look happy. You're getting exactly what you wanted—my family's money."

Eimi forced a tight, artificial smile for the cameras. "I'm shaking with the effort of not punching you in front of the Cardinal, Marco. Don't mistake it for nerves."

"With the power vested in me," the priest announced, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The applause was deafening. Marco turned to her, his eyes unreadable. According to tradition, he had to kiss the bride. He leaned in, his hand cupping her jaw with a gentleness that was entirely fake. As his lips brushed hers, Eimi felt a jolt of electricity that made her breath catch. It was a brief, dry contact, but it felt like a brand.

"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Moretti," he murmured against her ear as they turned to face the crowd.

The Villa of Shadows

By the time they reached the ancestral villa in Lake Como, the moon was high. The estate was silent, surrounded by dark water and whispering cypress trees.

Eimi was exhausted. Her head ached from the heavy tiara, and her feet were sore from the heels. All she wanted was to take off the dress and sleep for twenty-four hours.

Marco led her through the grand foyer to the master suite. He pushed open the double oak doors and stopped.

Eimi walked in behind him and gasped. The room was filled with hundreds of white roses and scented candles. A bottle of vintage champagne sat on ice. But the problem was in the center of the room: one massive, king-sized bed.

"Where is the other room?" Eimi asked, her voice rising in panic. "The contract said separate wings!"

Marco walked over to a small note left on the pillow. He read it, his jaw tightening. "It's from my grandfather. 'A young couple should not be apart on their first night. I have closed the other wings for renovation. Enjoy the heritage of the Moretti family.'"

"He's testing us," Eimi whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "He doesn't believe the marriage is real."

Marco cursed under his breath, throwing his jacket onto a chair. "The old man is sharper than I thought. He knows if we are truly in love, we wouldn't complain about sharing a room."

The First Night

Eimi looked at the bed, then at Marco. He was already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the tanned, muscular chest of a man who spent his free time boxing or rowing on the lake. Eimi quickly looked away, her heart racing.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

"I'm tired, Eimi. I've been acting for twelve hours straight. I'm going to sleep," Marco said, kicking off his shoes.

"Not on this bed! I'll take the bed, you take the sofa."

Marco pointed to the sofa—a narrow, antique velvet piece that looked like it was designed for a doll, not a six-foot-tall man. "I pay the bills, Princess. I sleep in the bed. You can sleep on the floor for all I care."

"You are a pig!" Eimi grabbed a silk pillow and threw it at him.

Marco caught it easily, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. He took three long strides until he was standing right in front of her. The smell of expensive wine and cedarwood wrapped around her again.

"Listen to me," Marco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous silkiness. "We are in a house full of servants who report directly to my grandfather. If they see me sleeping on a sofa or in a different room, the news reaches him by breakfast. Do you want your father's debt back? Do you want to go home to a bankrupt house?"

Eimi glared at him, her eyes stinging with frustrated tears. "I hate you."

"Good. Keep that hate," Marco said, stepping back. "It's safer than the alternative. Now, get changed. You take the left side, I take the right. If you cross the middle line, I'm throwing you into the lake."

Eimi grabbed her silk nightgown and retreated to the bathroom, slamming the door.

When she came out twenty minutes later, the lights were dimmed. Marco was already under the covers, his back turned to her. He looked like a statue of carved stone.

Eimi climbed into the other side, staying as far on the edge as possible. The bed was huge, but she could still feel the heat radiating from his body. Every sound—the rustle of the sheets, the rhythmic sound of his breathing—felt amplified in the silence.

For the first time in her life, Eimi was a wife. But as she stared at the moonlit ceiling of the Italian villa, she had never felt more alone.

The year had only just begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***