Page 82 of Shattered Engagement

She stands still for a moment, framed by the flowers she used to pick with dirt-streaked fingers, now radiant in white. She resembles a queen in her gown and tiara, and my hands itch to peel off every layer of delicate clothing covering her.

She’s walking toward me.

And for the first time in my life, I think I might not survive the beauty of something so whole.

Everything else fades away as I watch her walk towards me in her father’s arms.

Isadora

The mirror reflects a version of me I’ve never seen before—soft, regal, glowing. My gown cascades around me in layers of silk and tulle, custom-made and ethereal. It’s the kind of dress little girls imagine when they read fairy tales. My father chose it. Or rather, he had it made with the hope that his daughter would one day look like the princess he always envisioned.

And here I am.

The veil shimmers as Mama adjusts it from behind, her fingers trembling slightly. She’s been quiet for most of the morning, but the kind of quiet that holds a thousand unsaid things.

When our eyes meet in the mirror, hers are already misted.

“You’ve done what few women in our world have managed,” she says gently, smoothing the veil down my back. “You chose your fate. You didn’t let our world decide for you.”

I blink rapidly. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” she agrees, moving to sit beside me. “But you chose a man who sees you. Who lets you be strong.”

I hesitate. The question has lived in me for years, but I’ve never dared ask. Until now. “Mama... are you happy? With Papa?”

Her eyes widen slightly. Then soften.

She nods, a quiet smile curling her lips. “Ours was an arrangement. But it became something more. He’s never been cruel to me, Isadora. Never denied me comfort or respect. I learned not to insert myself in his business. And in return, he gave me peace.”

Her hands reach for mine, squeezing gently. “But your story... your story is different. You didn’t settle into someone else’s legacy. You’re building your own. You chose your groom, and he chose you to rule beside him. That man doesn’t want a queen to display. He wants a queen to build with.”

The tears come faster than I can stop them. We embrace, holding each other like mothers and daughters should—without apology. When we finally pull apart, I fan my face furiously.

“Don’t ruin the masterpiece,” Mama warns with a chuckle, passing me a tissue.

A knock sounds at the door. Vittorio’s voice filters through with rare gentleness. “It’s time.”

My mother stands first, smoothing down her dress. I follow, gathering the weight of the gown in one hand. We exit the room and step into the hallway, and there he is—my father.

Antonio De Angelis. Tall, commanding, but tonight... soft. His mouth is set in a firm line, but his eyes glisten.

“Don’t cry, Papa,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. “Because if you do, I will too.”

He clears his throat and offers me his arm. “Let’s go before I embarrass us both.”

As we step outside, sunlight floods the garden like a benediction. The air is fragrant with roses and wisteria, the hedges trimmed perfectly, lanterns floating above like suspended stars. It’s more than beautiful—it’s sacred.

My bare feet brush the petals scattered across the path. I used to gather them in tiny handfuls, whispering to imaginary fairies. But today, I don’t look for fantasy.

I look for him.

And he’s there.

Stefano Calviño.

The man who looks at me like I’m everything he never thought he could have. Like I’m the beginning and end of every war he’s ever fought.

His eyes never leave mine as I walk toward him. Not once.

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