My Mafia Fiancé’s Fake Bride

My anxiety spiked during our wedding photoshoot. A sharp pain stabbed through my chest.

My fiancé, Caius—the Falcone family heir—was helping his adoptive sister, Fiorella, try on my wedding dress.

He didn't even spare me a glance. He was on one knee, focused on adjusting the lace on Fiorella’s hem.

Before we’d even left the shop, Fiorella posted a selfie in the dress. She was all smiles, my fiancé standing beside her, posed like her groom.

Calmly, I pulled out my phone. I sent a message to a painter I keep on retainer.

"A royal portrait. The two of them. Old-world style. Use the cheapest materials you can find. I want the frame dripping with fake diamonds. Make it look like trash."

I'll have it sent to Fiorella. A wedding present. The note will be simple.

"A work of art as priceless as your bond. Best wishes on your wedding."

After seeing the intimate wedding photos of my fiancé and his adoptive sister, I ordered them a custom wedding gift and decided to end the engagement.

I sent the message, then turned to leave the bridal shop.

Suddenly, a heavy lighting rig from a nearby photography set came crashing down.

"Ah!" I flinched back. The sharp metal edge scraped my arm, and blood welled up instantly.

"Are you okay?" Caius’s voice. But he wasn’t running to me.

He was shielding the girl who’d "accidentally" knocked it over, frantically checking her for injuries.

Fiorella leaned against his chest, her eyes wide and teary as she stared at my bleeding arm.

"Ilaria, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice was a fragile whisper, like it might shatter on the wind.

It was obvious. She’d knocked it over while fooling around with Caius.

I looked at Caius’s worried face, and my heart ached for a split second.

Then I pressed down on the cut. Blood seeped through my fingers. I watched it, feeling the last of my love for him drain away with it.

"It's fine."

Caius finally looked at me, his gaze flickering over my wound, completely flat.

"Well, if you weren't glued to your phone, maybe you would've noticed something that big falling. How is this Fiorella's fault? She twisted her ankle trying to save you."

Then he brought his heel down on my phone.

The crack of the screen echoed in the silent studio.

"I told you last night, after the gala," he said, his voice cold steel. "Your attention belongs to me. Not this piece of junk. If it distracts you, it's gone."

On him? So I was supposed to watch my fiancé fit another woman into my wedding dress?

The gala... He'd had me pinned to the bed all night, punishing me, just because I glanced at a painter. And he was still mad?

I watched the screen spiderweb into a thousand pieces. The usual fire wasn't there. I just met his gaze, my voice flat. "You're right. It's gone."

Caius’s brow tightened. My