At the back of the ballroom, standing near the double doors, you saw a man who did not belong with anyone there.
Damian Salvatore.
Everyone knew his name, even if most were too afraid to say it out loud.
Billionaire hotel owner. Real estate king. Private port investor. Charity donor. Monster, depending on who was talking.
Some called him a saint to the poor and a demon to his enemies.
Others called him the mafia boss of Chicago.
No one had ever proved it.
He stood dressed in black, still as a shadow, his gaze calm enough to be terrifying.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t clapping.
He was watching.
You did not know why he was there.
He was not Leonardo’s friend. He was not part of the Harrington family’s polished world of inherited money and fake manners.
But when his eyes met yours, something inside your chest cracked.
Because for the first time in weeks, you felt seen.
Not admired.
Not owned.
Seen.
The priest began speaking.
His voice sounded distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a tunnel.
You tried to breathe.
You couldn’t.
The heavy makeup on your face started to itch. The thick foundation hiding the bruise along your cheekbone mixed with cold sweat beneath your veil. Your lips lost color.
“Valeria Morgan,” the priest said, “do you take Leonardo Harrington to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
