Chapter 3

The Italians’ Decision

The ballroom of the Manhattan luxury hotel glittered with chandeliers and silk-draped tables, but beneath the glamour, the air reeked of tension. Guests whispered, cameras flashed outside the grand entrance, and the sound of unanswered questions from the media bled in through the gilded doors:

“Where is the bride?”

“Did the Knights betray the Morettis?”

Inside the private chamber, the Moretti family stood like statues.

Giancarlo Moretti’s voice thundered, “Humiliation. In front of the world.” His thick Italian accent carved through the silence. Beside him, Isabella Moretti’s eyes blazed, her pearl necklace rising and falling with each sharp breath. Adriano paced, knuckles cracking, muttering about burning the Knights to ash.

Only Dante Alessio Moretti did not move. He sat in his chair, black suit crisp, jaw set, expression unreadable. His silence was more terrifying than rage.

Finally, Isabella snapped, “Dante, they offer us the younger one. Evelina. Twenty. Untouched.”

Every eye turned to him.

Dante leaned back slowly, dark eyes flicking between his parents. His face was cold marble, lips pressed in a hard line. He knew the stakes. Their empire’s reputation hung in the balance, mocked by the world waiting beyond those doors.

He stood, buttoning his jacket with calculated ease.

“Accept it,” he said flatly, voice smooth but edged with steel.

“They dared to shame us once. The world will not see us weak twice. The ceremony will go on—today. With Evelina.”

The message was sent to the Knights.

Charles Knight’s hands shook as he ended the call. He’d just traded his youngest daughter’s fate. Margaret, pale as ivory, pressed her palm to her lips, trying to hide the tremor of her breath.

“It’s done,” Charles muttered, collapsing into the velvet armchair. “The Italians… accept.”

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. “Evelina…”

But there was no room for softness. The Morettis had given them no choice.

Upstairs, Evelina Grace Knight twirled nervously in her lilac bridesmaid dress. She was twenty, soft-eyed, the embodiment of innocence that still believed in fragile things like love, freedom, and happy endings.

She had been waiting to see her sister walk down the aisle. Waiting to watch Scarlett’s life change forever.

She never expected the knock at the door.

Her mother entered, face pale, mascara smudged. Behind her, her father’s shoulders were hunched under invisible weight. Evelina’s smile faltered.

“What—what happened?” she whispered. “Where’s Scarlett?”

Margaret’s lips trembled. “Scarlett is gone.”

Evelina’s heart skipped. “Gone? What do you mean gone? She wouldn’t just—”

Charles cut her off, voice like gravel. “She ran away.”

The words hit her like a slap. Evelina shook her head in disbelief, but before she could form words, Margaret’s hands clutched her shoulders tightly.

“There’s no time, Evelina,” her mother said, desperation bleeding through every syllable. “The Italians… they were going to destroy us. But we offered you instead.”

Evelina blinked, her mind blank. “Me?”

Her father’s voice was iron. “You are to marry Dante Moretti. Today. Now.”

The world tilted beneath her. The chandelier above blurred as tears stung her lashes.

“Marry… him? But I don’t— I can’t—”

“You will,” Charles snapped, though his voice cracked. “You have no choice. Our lives depend on it.”

Her mother smoothed her hair, whispering, “You’re saving us, Evelina.” But it didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like betrayal.

Evelina’s chest tightened, her heart breaking in slow, crushing waves. She wasn’t asked. She wasn’t even given a moment to breathe. She was being handed over, like currency.

The bridal attendants—who had been waiting for Scarlett—were ushered in. Evelina stood frozen as the lilac bridesmaid dress was stripped away, her innocence peeled off like layers. In its place, the heavy white gown of a bride swallowed her, the same dress Scarlett was meant to wear.

She stared at herself in the mirror, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Her reflection looked like a stranger—veiled, painted, broken.

A lamb dressed for sacrifice.

Downstairs, the guests waited, unaware. The media clamored at the gates. The Morettis had demanded a bride, and they would have one.

Evelina Grace Knight, soft as glass, was about to walk down the aisle to Dante Alessio Moretti—the man whispered about as Il Sovrano.

A man she had never met.

A man she now belonged to.

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