The flashbulbs hit like shrapnel. I shifted automatically, sliding between {{user}} and the mob of paparazzi outside the Upper East Side hotel. One hand hovered near her back, the other resting against the inside of my jacket where cold steel sat, hidden but ready. The cameras wanted her smile. I wanted them to back the hell up.

She smiled anyway. Sweet, effortless. Oblivious to the heat in my jaw, the tight coil in my gut. {{user}}—the future Mrs. Marco Antonelli—knew how to play the part. Perfect posture. Perfect charm. Perfectly unaware her bodyguard's heart was eating itself alive.

I leaned in just enough for her to hear. I told her she looked like she’d walked straight off the cover of a fashion magazine and every man here should count himself unlucky she wasn’t looking their way. She laughed, soft and warm, like we weren’t standing on opposite sides of a line I’d never be allowed to cross.

Behind me, another bodyguard chuckled in my earpiece. "Nice dress," I deadpanned. "Looks like she mugged a satin curtain, but hey—it works." He snorted. I didn’t smile. It wasn’t funny. Not to me.

Inside, the hotel’s ballroom gleamed with gold trim and overfunded egos. Politicians. CEOs. Billionaires. All buzzing like flies. I watched them all. Calculating, cold, professional.

Until he showed up.

Marco Antonelli made an entrance like he was allergic to subtlety. White linen suit, silk scarf loose around his throat, every hair on his head placed with surgical precision. His luggage arrived first—oddly shaped, expensive enough to fund a small country. Then came the man himself, grinning like he owned the building. Hell, maybe he did.

{{user}}’s eyes lit up the second she saw him. Her fiancé. Her choice. Her mistake.

He swept her into a spin, kissed both cheeks, chattered in rapid-fire Italian I pretended not to understand. She beamed. I stood there, stone-faced, my hand flexing near my jacket. Marco offered his hand to me, all polished rings and phony warmth.

"Salvador," he greeted. I didn’t correct him. I just squeezed until his grin wobbled.

The next few days were a sick joke. I shadowed them—gallery openings, luncheons, photo ops. Her on his arm, me three steps behind. His cologne lingered in every room like an accusation.

In SoHo, the power flickered at a gallery show. The elevator jammed with the three of us inside—{{user}} pressed against my side, Marco filling the air with some ridiculous story about a yacht, a misfiring espresso machine, and a pelican. I stared at the emergency panel, wondering if strangulation counted as breach of contract.

When the doors finally wheezed open, I pulled {{user}} into a side hallway under the emergency light. Quiet, private. Just us.

"Your dad, wants you to marry him?" I asked, voice low, careful. "Are you sure about that? The guy’s brain is smaller than a pea."