I was with Marco, the New York Mafia heir, for seven years.

He never told his family about me.

But when I walked in on a wedding rehearsal and saw the groom embracing the bride-to-be. It was Marco!

"Her fiancé's held up in Italy. I'm just a stand-in," he told me, but his eyes never left her. "You're the best wedding planner in New York. This wedding has to be flawless."

But I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before.

A possessiveness that bordered on resentment.

Isabella, the bride, hated every idea I had for her.

In the end, Marco told me to give her the wedding I'd spent five years designing for myself.

"Our wedding can wait. I'll give you something bigger, I promise. It's just a plan, Sophia. It's what you do. Giving it to a client should be easy, right?"

He didn't know. It wasn't just a plan. It was my dying wish.

In the end, I gave him what he wanted, quietly preparing to die.

Later, he went mad, kidnapping the world’s best doctors—risking a global manhunt—all to save me.

I was with Marco, the New York Mafia heir, for seven years.

He never told his family about me.

But when I walked in on a wedding rehearsal and saw the groom embracing the bride-to-be. It was Marco!

"Her fiancé's held up in Italy. I'm just a stand-in," he told me, but his eyes never left her. "You're the best wedding planner in New York. This wedding has to be flawless."

But I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before.

A possessiveness that bordered on resentment.

Isabella, the bride, hated every idea I had for her.

In the end, Marco told me to give her the wedding I'd spent five years designing for myself.

"Our wedding can wait. I'll give you something bigger, I promise. It's just a plan, Sophia. It's what you do. Giving it to a client should be easy, right?"

He didn't know. It wasn't just a plan. It was my dying wish.

In the end, I gave him what he wanted, quietly preparing to die.

Later, he went mad, kidnapping the world’s best doctors—risking a global manhunt—all to save me.

...

“God, Sophia, this client is so picky,” my assistant Cathy grumbled next to me. “This is the tenth version! I hope we’re done today.”

“Easy, Cathy. The client’s satisfaction is our job. They’re here, let’s go.”

I walked towards the altar, folder in hand.

And I froze when I saw the couple.

"Is that...?"

Cathy cupped a hand over her mouth, whispering behind me.

"God, they're a gorgeous couple. No wonder she wants everything to be perfect. If I were marrying him, I'd want the wedding of the century."

They heard us.

"Sophia?"

The easy confidence on Marco's handsome face shattered.

A flash of panic crossed his eyes.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were busy today."

The accusation in his voice made my chest tighten.

I fought to stay professional.

But it felt like a fist was squeezing my heart, so tight I couldn’t breathe.

The woman beside him, the Mafia princess Isabella, dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, her eyes already red-rimmed.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Marco. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pretend to be my groom. I should go. I’ve been too much trouble.”

Marco grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t worry about it. You deserve the best, and it’s my duty to be here with you.”

Then came the killing blow. “Sophia won’t mind.”

Only then did he turn to me.

"I knew you'd get the wrong idea. That's why I didn't tell you."

"This is Isabella. Her family and mine go way back. Her fiancé is stuck in Italy, but the deal between our families can't wait. I'm about his build, so I'm helping out."

My face was a stone mask as I stared at them.

Isabella stepped forward from behind him.

She was in a couture gown, like a white rose with thorns.

A single tear hung on her eyelash, as if she were drowning in guilt.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Sophia. I didn't know you two were together. Marco told me you were a very independent and understanding woman, otherwise I never would have asked…"

She dipped her head, her body trembling slightly.

I bit down on my lip, hard, until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.

Understanding. Right.

What kind of woman is "understanding" enough to loan out her boyfriend for a wedding rehearsal?

As I stood there in silence, Marco actually put a hand on Isabella's arm to steady her, his voice sharp with blame.

"What are you staring at her for? If you're going to blame someone, blame her irresponsible fiancé. An alliance this important and he doesn't even show. He leaves her waiting all alone. The guy's a real bastard."

That wasn't Marco.

The Marco I knew was always smooth, always classy.

He never lost his cool in front of people, especially not over someone else's business.

What bothered me more was the fleeting look of disappointment on his face.

And resentment.

As the top wedding planner in New York, I had to keep business and personal separate.

I watched them walk the aisle.

Again and again.

The rehearsal didn't end until Isabella finally had a satisfied smile on her face.

The stabbing pain in my chest grew sharper, and I had to lean against a pew, pressing hard against it.

Before he left, Marco was still barking orders.

"Isabella's family came to you because they trust you. You're the best planner in New York. This wedding has to be flawless."

His eyes never left Isabella in that wedding dress.

Of course, he didn't see how pale I'd become.

This was my seventh year with Marco.

Seven years.

I'd gone from a nobody to the only planner the New York families would trust with their weddings.

But with Marco, I was still stuck in the same place.

We could spend every night tangled in the sheets, kissing like the world was ending.

But when the sun came up, I was still his dirty little secret.

Late that night, I got back to our penthouse in Manhattan.

I had just laid down when my mother called.

"Christmas is coming up. Is Marco coming to Seattle this year?"

"Sophia, my girl, it's been seven years. Hasn't he proposed yet? Tell me the truth, is something wrong between you two?"

The same questions. Again.

I'd told my parents about him years ago.

But he had never once taken me to meet his family.

I closed my eyes, my voice hoarse. "Mom, we're fine. I'll let you know when there's news."

It's not like I hadn't asked Marco.

But I always got the same lines.

"You're overthinking it."

"This is a critical time for us, for the business. Just wait a little longer."

"Marriage is a matter of timing. When my position is secure, the world will know you're mine. I gave you my word, didn't I? Don't you trust me?"

If I pushed any harder, he'd just go quiet and cold.

And so, it dragged on for seven years.

The suffocating feeling from the afternoon came rushing back.

My mother was still talking on the other end. "You've been with him so long, of course your father and I are worried. We just want you to be happy..."

That's when I finally broke.

"And what good would rushing me do? If you want to know when he's going to propose, why don't you ask him yourself? I'm tired enough dealing with clients all day, can't you just give me some space!"

As soon as I said it, my eyes filled with tears.

The other end of the line went quiet. I finally gave in.

“Mom, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have talked to you that way… I’m just… I’m so tired, I didn’t mean to. I’ll bring you that cheesecake from your favorite shop next time I’m home, okay? Please forgive me.”

There was a sigh on the line.

“Oh, Sophia,” she said, her voice tired. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I’m just worried. You need to look after your health.”

I was panting by the time I finished.

After hanging up, I fumbled in a drawer, poured a handful of pills into my palm, and swallowed them dry.

Don't get emotional.

The doctor had warned me. Stress would make it worse.

I had just finished washing up when I heard the front door open.

Marco walked in, holding the Armani suit jacket from the afternoon.

"Why are you still up? I told you, end of the year is busy with family stuff. Don't wait up for me."

He leaned in to kiss me, his breath thick with the smell of whiskey.

But as he got closer, I caught a faint scent underneath it.

Isabella's custom-blended perfume. One of a kind.

I turned my head away.

I flinched away from his kiss—the first time ever.

He thought I was being playful and let out a low chuckle.

His hand went to my chest, familiar and forceful.

The pressure of his fingertips ignited a burst of sharp pain.

I choked back a sound.

He paused, looking down at his own hand, confused.

"What's this?" he murmured, his fingers probing again. "It's hard... Why?"

I pushed his probing hand away, a cold sweat breaking out on my back.

"Don't… I don't feel well today."

Marco stopped, an annoyed look on his face.

He turned and walked into the bathroom.

I picked up the shirt he'd tossed aside.

The scent clinging to the collar was the same one from his suit jacket that afternoon.

Isabella's.

I swallowed the words I had planned to say to him tonight.

All the words I’d practiced in the mirror—about the hospital’s report, the biopsy, the terror that had stolen my sleep for six nights—stuck in my throat.

What was the meaning?

I folded his shirt, laying it on the dresser.

I didn’t say a word.

Today was my follow-up appointment with the doctor.

The minute I got to the hospital, I spotted a familiar figure standing by the curb.

Isabella looked a little surprised to see me, too.

She smiled and said hello.

Before she could say much else, a man came up behind her, carrying luxury shopping bags.

Of course. It was Marco.

I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice even.

"Fancy seeing you here. Again."

“Look, the dinner tonight is a big deal for her, and she needs to look sharp. She’s fresh off the boat from Italy, doesn’t know the city. I was making sure no lowlifes gave her trouble. It was a simple favor, nothing more.”

I almost had to laugh at the excuse he came up with.

"This is the kind of 'family gathering' where you have to personally take her shopping?"

"She has a big dinner tonight, she wants to look her best. She just got back from Italy, she doesn't know New York. I was just making sure no one bothered her. Just helping out, that's all!"

His voice turned cold.

"Are we at the point where you question me every time I'm seen with another woman? I thought you were better than that, Sophia. You know the rules."

Rules.

There was that word again.

For his rules, I had given up my design career in Seattle.

For his rules, I had been erased from every one of his family photos for seven years.

A sharp pang lanced through my chest again.

The air was thick with tension. Then Isabella jumped in again.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sophia, it was my idea to come. Marco was just… he's just a kind man, he was worried I couldn't handle things on my own. I promise, I won't bother him again."

Marco…

The way she said his name—so familiar, so easy, so intimite.

It felt like she was the one who had been with Marco for seven years, not me.

She turned to me, breaking the silence. "This might be rude to ask, but Miss Sophia, what brings you to the hospital?"

She was trying to change the subject.

It worked. Marco looked at me, a hint of scrutiny in his eyes.

"What's wrong? You're not feeling well?"

I forced a smile. Seeing a flicker of concern on his face, I decided to tell him the truth.

"The doctor found some lumps. He just wants me to get regular check-ups."

Isabella nodded. "Oh, that's common. So many women get benign ones."

Hearing that, Marco relaxed too, glancing at the stack of reports in my hand.

“Right,” he said, waving it off. “You’re overthinking it. A little sickness is no big deal.”

I opened my mouth to explain more—about the further tests the doctor had recommended—

But Isabella suddenly looped her arm through Marco’s, her voice a spoiled purr. “Marco, hurry up. If we don’t get to Cartier now, we’ll be late for the dinner.”

"Right, well, you get that checked out. I have to run."

As he turned to go, I clutched the report in my hand, holding on to one last sliver of hope, and asked tentatively.

"Since you're already here, won't you wait with me?"

He glanced at his watch, his tone impatient.

"Sophia, you should have told me ahead of time. I've got a family meeting I can't miss."

"Be good. I'll bring you back your favorite Bordeaux tonight."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I didn't try to stop him again.

That night, when he wasn't looking, I poured the entire bottle of wine he brought back down the toilet.

The doctor's words echoed in my head: for me, alcohol was a death sentence.

If my condition got any worse, I probably wouldn't make it to spring.

That night, I sat alone on the balcony, tears blurring the city lights into a watery haze.

I had made my decision.

I decided to take my doctor's advice and requested a long leave of absence from my studio.

But the next day, Marco found out somehow.

He dropped everything he was doing with the family, sped back to the apartment, and confronted me.

"You're taking time off? Then who the hell is going to handle Isabella's wedding?"