The ballroom went silent.
Leonardo squeezed your hand harder.
“Answer,” he muttered.
You opened your mouth.
But before a single word came out, your vision blurred. The flowers became white smoke. The chandeliers became stars. Your body folded forward, and you collapsed at the altar.
Your mother’s scream ripped through the ceremony.
Cameras turned.
Guests stood.
Leonardo bent down, but not with concern.
With fury.
Like he had just watched an investment fall apart in front of witnesses.
“Get up,” he hissed, pretending to help you. “Valeria, don’t you dare do this.”
Then Damian Salvatore crossed the ballroom.
He did not run.
He didn’t have to.
People moved out of his way as if the air itself had warned them.
Leonardo looked up and froze.
“Stay out of this,” he snapped.
Damian didn’t even glance at him.
He crouched beside you, one knee touching the marble floor, and carefully lifted your veil.
The room held its breath.
His eyes moved across your face.
At first, all he saw was bridal makeup—perfect skin, painted lips, soft blush.
Then his thumb brushed near your cheek, where the sweat had loosened the foundation.
The makeup smeared.
A dark purple bruise showed underneath.
A woman gasped.
