Chapter 3 - The Bride’s Tantrum
Sophia stopped three feet away from us, her chest heaving beneath layers of French lace and overpriced crystal beadwork. Her eyes were blazing, darting furiously from my worn-out shoes up to Giovanni’s bespoke charcoal tuxedo.
“Sophia, keep your voice down,” I said evenly, not breaking the dance frame, though my stomach gave a nervous lurch. “You’re making a scene.”
“I’m making a scene?!” Sophia shrieked, her voice cutting through the soft violin music like a jagged knife. Several guests nearby turned away awkwardly, pretending to inspect the floral centerpieces. “You show up late, wearing that pathetic thrift-store dress, sit in the designated poor-relation section by the kitchen, and now you’re waltzing around the middle of the floor with... with—” She stopped, her eyes flicking up to Giovanni’s face, finally recognizing the terrifying aura of absolute power he projected. Her voice dropped an octave, trembling with sudden, terrified confusion. “Sir... I’m so sorry. My sister doesn't know etiquette. She doesn't belong here. Security can escort her out if she’s bothering you—”
Giovanni didn't look at Sophia. He didn't even slow down his rhythm. He simply rotated us half a turn, shielding me from her direct line of sight as if she were a minor, irritating gnat buzzing near a lion.
“Your sister is not bothering me,” Giovanni said, his voice dropping into that cool, effortless baritone that commanded absolute silence. “In fact, she is the only reason I am currently gracing this establishment with my presence. If you ask security to escort her anywhere, Mrs. Vance—or whatever your new married surname happens to be—you will find out very quickly how fast a multi-million-dollar wedding contract can be canceled by morning.”
Sophia’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly like a fish out of water. Her face turned the color of a bruised plum.
“Canceled...?” she stammered, looking wildly around the room. “Who... who even are you?”
“Ask your new husband’s family,” Giovanni replied coldly, his amber eyes finally fixing on Sophia with a look so utterly devoid of warmth that she involuntarily took two steps backward. “They’ll tell you.”
Before Sophia could muster another syllable, a heavy hand descended on her shoulder.
It was Tyler.
He had materialized beside her, his face dark with a mixture of humiliation and seething male ego. He ignored Sophia completely, his eyes locked onto Giovanni with a hostile, defensive glare.
“All right, pal,” Tyler said, his voice tight, attempting to project a toxic sort of alpha-male bravado that fell flat against Giovanni’s towering, statuesque composure. “I don't know what kind of game you’re playing, or what kind of money you threw at her to pull this stunt, but Jessica is my ex-wife. She likes to play the victim, but trust me—you can do a lot better than a tired nurse with baggage.”
The music seemed to grind to a complete halt in my ears.
A hot, searing wave of humiliation rushed up my neck. I opened my mouth to snap at him, to remind him of the child he abandoned, the bills he dodged, the nights I sat alone in a one-bedroom apartment while he traded up for a wealthy heiress.
But Giovanni moved faster.
Without breaking eye contact with Tyler, Giovanni smoothly spun me out, caught my hand, pulled me back against his chest with protective finality, and stepped directly into Tyler’s personal space.
Because of the height difference, Giovanni towered over Tyler by at least four inches. But it wasn't the height that made Tyler swallow hard; it was the sheer, suffocating menace radiating from Giovanni’s posture.
“A tired nurse,” Giovanni repeated softly, each word falling like a drop of freezing acid. “Who raised a child alone while you built a mediocre career on family connections you didn't earn. You called her baggage, Mr. Vance. History will remember you as the footnote.”
Tyler’s face flushed crimson. He clenched his fists, stepping forward as if he wanted to throw a punch. “You son of a—”
“Try it,” Giovanni interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet whisper. “And by sunrise, every bank account, commercial lease, and credit line your family owns will be frozen by federal auditors before you can even finish spelling your own name.”
Tyler froze. His fist hovered in the air for a fraction of a second, then slowly dropped to his side. He looked into Giovanni’s amber eyes—eyes that didn't hold a single trace of bluff—and realized he was staring down an abyss.
“Come on, Tyler,” Vanessa called out nervously from the edge of the dance floor, her voice cracking as she hurried over to grab his arm, her eyes wide with terror. “Let’s... let’s go back to the table. This is ridiculous.”
Tyler glared at me one last time, a mask of pure, bitter venom, before letting Vanessa pull him away into the crowd.
Sophia stood frozen for a moment longer, looking at me as if I were a stranger she had never met, before turning on her heel and fleeing toward the bridal suite in tears.
The dance floor cleared around us as the song finally faded out.
May you like
Giovanni looked down at me, his expression softening just a fraction, though the intensity never left his face.
“Well,” he murmured, offering me a slight, ironic smile. “How was that for your first society wedding?”
