I sat in silence, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded neatly in my lap like I'd been trained.
A porcelain doll on display. My suit itched—not because of the fabric (God knows it was tailored to perfection), but because it didn't feel like mine.
Nothing here did.
Not the clothes.
Not the estate.
Not even the name Caruso stitched into the handkerchief tucked neatly in my breast pocket.
I'd been wearing masks for so long, I wasn't even sure what my real face looked like anymore.
"Back straight, Nico."
Father's voice—no, Dario Caruso's voice—cut through the soft murmurs in the grand hall.
The marriage hall, draped in wealth and white lies.
He didn't even look at me when he said it.
I straightened. Not because I cared what he thought. But because the quicker I played my role, the faster this nightmare would be over.
All around me were flowers. Pale white orchids in tall silver vases. A string quartet played something elegant and sad. Guests shimmered in diamonds and disapproval, their whispers curling through the air like smoke.
It was a wedding, technically. But to me, it felt like a transaction, because that's exactly what it was. And I was the one being transacted, dressed in silk and silence.
I wasn't being married off for love. I was being sold—like a check signed in cursive and sealed with blood—to one of the most powerful business families in Europe.
The Vitale family.
Or more precisely…To Dante Vitale.
My future husband.
No—not future.
My husband.
All that was left was a signature.
I had never met him.
Didn't need to.
Rumors alone were enough to make the blood in my veins run cold. That he'd dismantled billion-euro deals with a single boardroom glance. That he didn't believe in love, or omegas, or anything soft. That he ruled not with fury, but with silence—and silence is always more terrifying.
But the Carusos needed power, and the Vitales wanted legitimacy.
So instead of sending their daughter…They sent me.
The adopted son.
The expendable one.
I glanced down at the small, black ring box resting on the table beside me; my hand trembled.
Not because of nerves. But because I finally understood what this ring truly symbolized.
Not commitment.
Not union.
But obedience.
Surrender.
And yet…
He wasn't here.
Dante Vitale.
Not even a shadow of him.
It had been over an hour since the ceremony was meant to begin. Every second ticked louder than the last. People shifted in their chairs. Murmured. The musicians played on as if it might distract us from the fact that the groom hadn't shown up.
And for one brief, selfish moment—I hoped he had run.
God, I hoped he had run.
Because the only thing worse than marrying a man who might ruin me…was being unwanted by him before he even laid eyes on me.
And then I saw her.
Sofia Vitale.
Dante's elder sister.
Her lipstick was perfect. So was her disgust.
She didn't even try to hide it. Her eyes slid over me like I was gum on a heel—something unpleasant but unavoidable. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, sighed deeply, and strode to her father.
Mr. Alessandro Vitale.
My soon-to-be father-in-law. A man more terrifying in stillness than in speech.
She whispered something into his ear. He grunted. Then sighed. Then stood. He walked straight to my father—and whispered something I couldn't catch.
But I didn't need to.
Because my father let out a tight, awkward laugh. The kind he gave reporters when he was cornered.
Then his smile dropped, and he turned toward me.
His eyes were ice.
"Get up," he said quietly.
I rose instantly. My knees locked so tightly I thought I might fall. I followed him like a well-trained dog, down the aisle, through the sea of stares, to a small side table—simple, plain, and heartbreakingly cold.
He picked up the pen and slapped it onto a crisp white document already spread on the table.
"Sign it," he muttered.
I stared at the marriage certificate. My name was already printed: Nico Caruso.
Next to it, in darker ink: Dante Vitale.
"But… where is he?" I asked quietly.
Father's lips barely moved. "Don't start."
"I just—"
"He's not coming."
The words sank into my skin like ice water.
Father leaned in, voice low and sharp. "Dante had a… situation. He can't be here in person. But this—" he tapped the document with two fingers "—this makes it legal. The moment you sign it, you're married."
A situation, he'd said. As if being too busy to attend your own wedding was just an unfortunate scheduling conflict.
My mouth went dry.
"You're still staring," he hissed. "Did you not hear me?"
"I heard," I whispered.
He took a breath, then added under it, "Don't make this harder than it already is. Sign the goddamn paper, Nico. This is what we raised you for."
Raised me for.
Not loved me for.
Not protected me for.
Used me for.
I looked down at the signature line.
The ink. The emptiness.
And then, slowly, with trembling fingers… I picked up the pen and I signed my name.
Nico Caruso.
The applause came too fast.
Too loud.
Too fake.
It thundered through the hall like a celebration of a war won—by people who had nothing to lose.
Alessandro Vitale extended his hand toward my adopted father, and the two men shook like brokers finalizing a billion-dollar deal.
Like kings swapping pawns on a chessboard.
Like strangers agreeing to share a tomb.
And then I saw her move.
Sofia Vitale.
Graceful. Icy. Dressed in a dress worth more than most people's homes. She walked toward me with a slow, measured elegance that could kill. When she reached me, she held out a small, dark velvet box and dropped it onto the table in front of me—like it offended her to touch me for longer than necessary.
"You can wear it now," she said coolly.
Then she leaned in just enough for her words to slide under my skin.
"Don't get any foolish ideas that my brother will come and slide it onto your finger like in some fairytale."
Her breath smelled like roses and venom.
She chuckled softly, cruelly. "He doesn't care, little Caruso. This isn't a love story."
No.
It wasn't.
And I knew that.
I said nothing. I didn't flinch. I didn't fight. I simply reached for the ring box, my hand steady this time—not from courage, but from numbness.
I opened it slowly. The ring stared back at me—sleek, heavy, silver. A band meant to bind, not to love.
I slipped it onto my own finger.
Alone.
Unceremoniously.
Like a prisoner putting on his own chains.
From across the room, I felt a sharp gaze.
Amelia Caruso.
My sister.
The real daughter of the Caruso family.
She stood near the champagne table, one hand resting gently on the stem of her glass, the other adjusting the silk scarf around her neck like this was just another Tuesday brunch.
She didn't look at me.
Not when I walked in.
Not when I signed.
Not now.
Of course she didn't.
After all, what was there to look at?
Just the adopted son, the filler child, the one sent in her place because she was too valuable to risk. The one who now belonged to a man who hadn't even bothered to show up for the ceremony.
I pressed my thumb against the cold curve of the ring.
It didn't even fit properly.
How funny.
All around me, the music swelled—soft and golden, as if love lived here. Laughter rippled through champagne glasses. The two families clinked their crystal flutes like they'd just sealed a future dripping in gold.
And me?
I stood. Smiling politely. Nodding when expected. Thanking people I didn't know with words I didn't mean.
And then I felt a presence beside me.
Amelia.
She wrapped her arms around me, warm and graceful, and offered a smile that belonged on camera.
"Congratulations, my dearest brother," she cooed, her voice light and affectionate.
And then—as her mouth brushed near my ear—
"Don't you dare come back here," she whispered, sweet as sugar. "If you do… well, let's just say it won't end well. For either of us."
She pulled back, smiling wider now. A soft chuckle slipped from her lips, and she turned on her heel—walking away in her perfect heels, leaving the echo of her threat behind like perfume.
Before I could fully process it, Sofia Vitale approached. Impeccable posture. Frost-bitten eyes. She didn't even pretend to smile.
"The Vitale family car is waiting downstairs," she said smoothly, like she was announcing trash collection.
"Go. You've served your purpose here."
I nodded silently. Because what else was there to say?
I turned and walked away. Every step toward the door felt like I was peeling away whatever scraps of identity I had left.
The air outside hit me like a slap—sharp, quiet, and too clean. A sleek black car waited by the curb. Engine humming softly, like a predator that had already decided I wouldn't run.
I reached for the door.
But then—A hand wrapped around my arm.
Firm. Controlled. Familiar.
"Wait."
I turned.
My adopted father.
My puppeteer.
My executioner in a suit worth more than my soul.
He didn't look angry. He looked… transactional. Like he was finalizing the shipment of an expensive product.
His gaze dropped to the ring on my finger.
"You're now Vitale," he said flatly. "Whether they like it or not."
I said nothing.
He leaned in slightly, voice low and precise—each word cutting colder than the last.
"Behave. Obey them. Make yourself useful. Don't embarrass me." His grip tightened. "Don't disappoint me, Nico. And if you do… I'll have no choice but to punish you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
And nodded once.
Not because I agreed.
Not because I forgave him.
But because I needed to survive.
He let go.
And just like that, the conversation—our relationship—ended.
I turned away, opened the car door, and slid inside.
No one called after me.
No one watched me leave.
And maybe—just maybe—that was the most honest moment of the day. I sat in silence, hands folded neatly in my lap. The ring on my finger caught the light as the city faded behind the tinted windows.
Off to begin a new journey.
With someone I had never seen.
Never met.
Never loved.
And maybe—just maybe—never would.