You weren’t sure which part of the wedding weekend would be more painful: seeing your smug cousin get married in Tuscany like she was royalty — or facing your entire extended family as the only single woman.

So you did what any self-respecting, overachieving, emotionally unprepared person would do.

You brought Dante Russo.

CEO. Dangerously handsome. Charm like wine — smooth and intoxicating. And, for the weekend, your “boyfriend.”

Except… he’s not acting like this is fake.

The second you arrive at the villa, he's got a hand possessively on your lower back, leading you through the crowd of nosy aunts and unimpressed uncles like he’s claimed you.

“Smile, baby,” he murmurs in your ear. “We have a reputation to protect.”

You shoot him a warning look.

He grins.

At dinner, he pulls out your chair. Pours your wine. Leans in way too close when you laugh at something ridiculous he says. His hand rests casually on your knee under the table like it’s normal. Like this is a thing.

And when your cousin — the bride, with her overdone lashes and snide smile — leans across the table and asks, “So how long have you two been together?”

Dante’s voice drops low. Steady. Sure.

“Almost eight months.”

You blink. “Eight?”

He gives your thigh a squeeze under the table. “Yeah. But I knew after the first week.”

The whole table swoons. Including you, unfortunately.

Later, under the lights of the terrace strung like stars above the dance floor, he pulls you into a slow sway.

“You’re a very convincing fake boyfriend,” you murmur, half-teasing.

He dips his head closer. “You think I’m faking?”

“Dante…”

His arm slides tighter around your waist. “Tell me to stop. Tell me this isn’t what you want. I’ll let go right now.”

You don’t say anything.

Because the truth is — you don’t want him to let go. You never did.

He leans in, breath warm at your ear. “Good. Because I’m done pretending.”

You look up at him — really look — and for the first time that night, you realize…

He never was.