Eva kissed the man who murdered her sister.
The orchestra's final chord swelled behind her as lips brushed lips—cold, practiced, perfect. The kiss lasted precisely three seconds, enough to satisfy the crowd. Not too long to arouse suspicion. Not too short to seem unromantic.
Camera shutters snapped like distant gunfire.
Damian Moretti pulled away first, his hand still resting on the small of her back. Possessive. Public. Powerful. She tilted her face toward him with a radiant smile she had trained in the mirror for weeks.
"Smile," he murmured so only she could hear, "unless you want them to think I forced you."
You did, she almost said.
Instead, Eva reached for his hand, interlaced their fingers, and turned to face the hundreds gathered in the cathedral. The crowd erupted in applause, the congregation none the wiser that this wasn't a wedding. It was a battlefield.
And she had just stepped into enemy territory in a white lace dress.
---
They said her sister's death had been an accident.
A car crash. Wet road. Tragic loss.
But Isabella had never been careless. Eva had studied the police reports obsessively, then the photos the investigators didn't think to lock away. No, Isabella's car didn't spin out—it had been forced off the road. There were marks on her door. Impact from another vehicle. And the last call she made before dying?
Was to Damian Moretti.
The same man now wearing a custom tuxedo and kissing her knuckles in front of their wedding guests.
He was the heir to the Moretti syndicate. Powerful. Untouchable. And now, her husband.
She had studied him for months. Joined charities his mother sponsored. "Accidentally" met him at a gallery. Laughed at his jokes. Let him court her. Let him win.
It hadn't taken long. Men like Damian wanted trophies. She gave him the perfect one.
Now she wore his ring.
And planned to destroy him from within.
---
The reception was held in a grand ballroom dripping with wealth and old money. Gold sconces lined the walls, and tables overflowed with champagne, truffles, and secrets.
Eva moved through the crowd like a trained illusion—smiling, touching arms, receiving congratulations. Her dress clung to her like silk spun from a lie. Champagne tickled her throat, but she barely tasted a thing.
Across the room, she felt his gaze.
Damian watched her with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He raised his glass in mock salute. She held his stare for half a beat too long.
Then he crossed the room.
"Careful, Mrs. Moretti," he murmured, voice low and intimate. "If you keep smiling like that, people might think you're happy."
"I'm just a woman in love," she replied sweetly, the words like poison dipped in honey.
He stepped closer, his breath brushing her ear. "Then let's hope you're better at lying than she was."
Her blood chilled.
But she didn't flinch. She let her smile stretch wider, tilting her head as if his words were nothing more than a joke. "A toast, then—to lies that last a lifetime."
He clinked her glass.
And in that moment, she couldn't tell who was winning.
---
Later that night, in the penthouse suite that overlooked the city, Eva stared at her reflection. The veil was gone, the makeup fading, but the woman in the mirror still wore a stranger's face.
Damian entered without knocking.
"Beautiful night," he said, loosening his tie. "Did you enjoy our little performance?"
"You were very convincing," she said coolly.
He smirked. "I aim to please."
He approached her from behind, placed his hands on her shoulders. She held perfectly still, her spine like steel beneath skin.
"You're tense," he said.
"I'm married to a Moretti."
He leaned in, lips at her ear. "You'll get used to it."
She met his gaze in the mirror. "I'm not afraid of you."
He smiled—slow, deliberate. "You should be."