Page 4 of Cruel Deception
“I heard,” he said smoothly, “that you’ve gone ahead and signed the marriage contract with the Moretti family.”
I held his gaze. “That’s not news. It was Grandfather’s last wish before he died. And I’m fulfilling it. If you think you can stop me—”
“No one is stopping you, Charlotte.”
My name on his lips makes my skin crawl, like a curse I want to burn away. “Good. Then get to the point. Why are you here?”
He didn’t answer. Not right away. He wandered over to the corner where I’d set up a small memorial—candles, incense, a worn-out rosary, and my grandfather’s picture framed with string and dried lavender.
I had gone to the Moretti mansion two months ago—barely a week after Grandfather died, with grief still clawing at my throat—and signed the marriage contract with trembling fingers, agreeing to marry their second son.
Not for love.
Not for power.
But to honor the man who raised me.
What no one knew—what I never said aloud—was that just three days before I stepped into the Moretti mansion to sign that marriage contract,
I’d undergone a double mastectomy.
Both breasts were removed.
The surgeons had called it a necessary procedure—life-saving, even.
But it felt like a quiet kind of death.
A mastectomy is when the breast tissue is surgically removed, often to treat or prevent breast cancer.
Mine was sudden. Brutal. And I hadn’t even begun to grieve what I’d lost before I pulled on a dress, bandaged and rawbeneath silk, and went to honor my grandfather’s dying wish—to marry into the Moretti family.
The pain was still there—sharp some days, dull and aching on others. Healing wasn’t just physical. It was quiet, lonely work. Wrapping fresh bandages at night. Avoiding mirrors during the day. Pretending I was fine.
When I visited him—my fiancé—I wore a padded bra under a loose blouse. Just once. Just to get through it. I hated every second of it. Hated how fake it felt. Like I was selling him an illusion.
I told myself I’d explain. Before the wedding. Before the vows.
So it wouldn’t be a marriage built on lies.
But God, I was terrified.
Terrified he’d flinch. Or worse—look at me with pity.
They said the eldest Moretti son ran their Chicago operations, which meant the younger one—my fiancé—was next in line for New York once their father stepped down.
I’d only met him once. He was calm, composed, handsome in that cool, untouchable way. But his eyes? They gave nothing. Not warmth. Not curiosity. Just walls. A man built entirely of locked doors.
I don’t know if he likes me, and I don’t care. In two months, we’ll be married, and if it’s a mistake, I’ll deal with it. Divorce is always an option, though I doubt the Morettis make it easy to walk away.
“Charlotte,” my father says, staring at the portrait, his voice low, almost mocking.
I stand, every nerve on edge, hating how he invades this sacred space. “Say what you came to say and get out.” The word tastes like ash but I spit them out anyway.
He turns, his eyes cold and unyielding. “You’re moving in with me. Today. Right now.”
My stomach drops, and the room feels smaller, the shadows darker. I stare at him, my heart pounding with a mix of fury and dread.
This man, who abandoned me, who let my mother disappear, and failed to look for her, who stripped my grandfather of everything, thinks he can just walk in and take control of my life?
