Chapter 51: Wedding day
It didn’t take too long before her character was killed off in the movie series—merely two days. By then, she was already more than ready to quit with the overwhelming number of things that demanded her attention, even if she didn’t have to raise a finger herself. Everything around her seemed to require approval, a signature, or a nod.
The wedding dress had to be done and redone, every stitch inspected under blinding lights, to ensure that nothing about it was less than flawless. Anything that went wrong, no matter how minor, would reflect badly on Dante and, by extension, directly on his company. Seamstresses hovered anxiously, their hands trembling as they adjusted the fabric that fell around her like clouds of snow.
Even more exhausting were all the tiny, unnecessary details of the wedding that she had to pretend to be interested in—the floral arrangements, the seating plan, the choice of orchestra, and the number of tiers on the cake. Things she cared nothing about but had to nod to as though they meant the world.
It wasn’t actually her wedding, not in spirit, even though she was the one getting married. Why should she care about what guests were invited or what theme the hall should be decorated in? To her, it was nothing but a transaction, a performance she couldn’t escape. Left to her, she and Dante going to the registry and signing the papers would have been enough. No need for the grandeur or the attention.
Still, the wedding day came faster than she would have liked, even as she stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress that felt as soft as feathers, its intricate lace pattern wrapping around her body like a whisper. She draped a veil over her head, its delicate shimmer catching the light as she prepared to head out.
Elisa sat beside her in a wheelchair, covered in a long, beautiful gown that reached her ankles and hid every inch of the bandaged parts of her body. There was no smile on her sister’s face—no trace of the joy that should have been there on such a day. Dora understood it too well; she didn’t have one either. Her stepmother stood beside her with a stoic, unreadable expression, while her father—ever the diplomat—managed to conjure up a faint, forced smile. Dora, seeing it, responded with one of her own.
"In a few hours, this will be over," she whispered to herself under her breath, the words a quiet prayer for endurance.
She watched her family members head out first toward the car parked outside, their movements rehearsed and formal. Then, guided by her assistant, Dora stepped into another vehicle—one that looked far too luxurious even for a limousine, the kind of car meant to be seen, not sat in. The leather seats were smooth and cool under her palms as she settled in, exhaling softly.
But she had barely adjusted herself in her seat when she raised her head—and gasped. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she saw Llara already sitting opposite her, legs crossed, looking completely at ease.
"You—I thought you travelled!" Dora blurted, glancing around quickly, relieved to see Ettore seated in the front beside the driver, giving them a rare moment of privacy.
"I did," Llara replied with an easy, teasing smile, her tone light, "but you didn’t think I was going to miss your very first wedding, did you?"
Her words carried a mix of humor and warmth that made Dora’s tense shoulders finally ease. With a small, startled laugh, she leaned forward, launching herself into Llara’s arms despite the risk of wrinkling her gown.
"I would have hated to do this alone," Dora murmured against her shoulder, her voice trembling faintly with relief.
Llara hugged her back with a reassuring squeeze, her bright smile unwavering. "And you won’t," she promised.
Barely had they separated when Dora began to talk—everything she had bottled up spilling out in a rush. She told Llara everything that had happened since they last spoke: her sister’s condition, the arrangements, and even the night she spent with Dante. The confession came out quietly but heavily, her words thick with unspoken guilt and resignation.
"You had sex with him?" Llara asked, her brows arching slightly.
Dora nodded, her expression somber, eyes lowered. "I could be pregnant," she said in a low voice, the words sounding heavier when spoken aloud.
Llara’s eyes widened slightly before she smiled—wide and genuine. "Congratulations! This is good," she said immediately, her tone warm and practical, as though the situation was something to be proud of.
Dora gave her a flat, weary look, but Llara continued, leaning forward slightly. "Think about it. In nine months, you’ll step away from all this—millions of dollars richer. Dante will take care of your sister’s recovery, and by then, there’s no way Tiberio will still be interested in you."
Her words were blunt but filled with the kind of pragmatic comfort Dora had always admired about her. Slowly, Dora nodded, her mind turning over the truth of it. "You’re right," she whispered finally, though the knot in her chest didn’t loosen.
"Don’t worry," Llara said softly, reaching over to take her hand. "You’ve gotten all the way here. You’ll make it through this too."
The sincerity in her voice made Dora’s throat tighten. She didn’t say it out loud, but she had been terrified—terrified of what would come after, of what she had agreed to. The weight of her decision was finally beginning to settle on her shoulders, heavier with each passing moment.
The limousine arrived at the hall much faster than Dora would have liked. Her heart sank as the car slowed, the muffled sounds of cameras and chatter already filtering through the tinted windows. The door was pulled open by an attendant, and Dora stepped out, the layers of her gown billowing slightly around her legs.
Behind her, Llara followed, leaning close to whisper, "Smile, Dora. You’ll look nervous otherwise."
Dora tried, forcing her lips into a soft, graceful curve that didn’t reach her eyes. Llara, ever perceptive, added under her breath, "Dante isn’t a bad person, you know. He agreed to let me accompany you the second I reached out to him."
Dora’s smile wavered, her tone sharp and low as she whispered back, "Doesn’t mean he’s a good person either."
Still, she kept the polite, serene expression on her face as they ascended the marble stairs toward the church. Her gown’s train trailed elegantly behind her, the sound of her heels muffled by the red carpet. The doors opened, flooding the room with soft light and the gentle hum of the waiting guests.
"Well," Llara murmured beside her, just before they reached the entrance, "he’s a billionaire. He didn’t get to where he is by adhering to the rules. None of them do."
Dora didn’t respond this time. She was too focused on keeping her steps steady, careful not to trip on the long train of her dress.
At the far end of the aisle stood Dante. His expression was calm, almost tender, his posture relaxed yet commanding. Fabio stood slightly behind him, face unreadable. The orchestra played softly, the melody light and serene.
Dora’s gaze met Dante’s as she walked, her heart beating with a strange rhythm that felt neither love nor hate—just inevitability. Dante’s eyes softened as she approached, and though his lips curved into what appeared to be a loving smile, she knew better. It was a performance, much like her own.
Still, she kept walking until she reached him, her breath trembling faintly as she came to a stop. She could feel the eyes of the guests, the cameras flashing somewhere behind them.
The priest began to speak, his voice echoing faintly across the high ceiling. The words were calm, ceremonial, familiar.
The atmosphere was serene, heavy with false warmth, and if she and Dante had been truly in love, the smiles on their faces might have reached their eyes. But they didn’t. They were there for one thing—to play their roles until the curtain fell.
