Chapter 4
Serena's POV
By morning, my phone had 47 missed calls.
Twelve from Dominic. Eight from Marcus. The rest — society gossips, family friends, people who suddenly remembered I existed. And one voicemail from Vivienne, her voice thin and trembling:
"Serena... what is this? Please tell me this is some mistake. Please call me back."
I deleted it.
Then I blocked her number.
...
Dominic showed up at my door by noon — no call, no warning. Just his fist hammering against the wood like he had the right.
"Open the door, Serena. Now."
I took my time. Fixed my hair in the mirror. Applied a fresh coat of lipstick. Then I opened the door, leaning against the frame like I had nowhere to be.
"Dominic. What a surprise."
He looked wrecked. Shirt half-untucked, hair wild, eyes bloodshot. He held up his phone — my wedding invitation glowing on the screen.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded.
"An invitation," I said calmly. "Surely you know what those look like."
"You're marrying Dante Valenti?" His voice cracked on the name. "The Dante Valenti? Have you lost your mind?"
I examined my nails. "I thought we were on a break. You told me to figure out what I want." I looked up at him. "I figured it out."
"This isn't — you can't—" He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward him. "Serena, this man is dangerous. His family—"
"More dangerous than yours?" I pulled free, rubbing my wrist. "Funny how you never worried about danger when you were sneaking around with Vivienne."
His face drained of color.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I know about the wedding, Dominic. Found the invitations in your desk three weeks ago. Ivory cardstock. Gold foil. Very tasteful."
"That's—I was going to tell you—"
"When? At the altar?" I stepped back. "It doesn't matter now. You made your choice. I've made mine."
"He's using you." Dominic's voice turned desperate. " Valenti doesn't do anything without an agenda. Whatever deal your father made—"
"My father didn't make me do anything," I said. "I called Dante myself. The night I found your invitations. I chose this."
Something broke in his expression — not heartbreak, but panic. The panic of a man realizing the quiet girl he took for granted had outplayed him.
"Serena, please." He reached for me again. "I made a mistake. Vivienne — she means nothing. She was just—"
"Your bride?" I supplied helpfully.
"No! I mean — things got out of hand. She said she was pregnant, I panicked—"
I went still. "Pregnant?"
He ran his hands over his face. "She said she was. I believed her. My family pressured me. But I never stopped loving you, Serena. You have to believe—"
"Get out."
"Serena—"
"I said get out."
He must have seen something in my eyes, because he stepped back. Then — one last look, pleading, pathetic — and he was gone.
I closed the door. Leaned against it. Let out one long, shaking breath.
Pregnant. She'd told him she was pregnant.
Was it true? Was it a lie? Did it even matter?
The man I'd loved for three years had chosen my stepsister — for whatever reason — and never once told me the truth.
My phone buzzed. Dante.
"He came to you," Dante said. Not a question.
"You were watching?"
"My men were. Are you alright?"
I straightened, staring at myself in the hallway mirror. The woman looking back had dry eyes, a set jaw, and a ruby ring that caught the light like fire.
"I'm fine," I said. "Don't cancel anything."
"I wouldn't dream of it." A pause. Then, softer: "Serena. You don't have to do this alone. I'm here if you need me."
I didn't know what to say to that — this man I barely knew, offering what Dominic never could.
"Thank you, Dante," I whispered.
And I meant it.
...
The next two weeks moved like a storm.
Dante handled everything — the venue, the flowers, the guest list, the security. Every detail was flawless. Every decision made with quiet precision.
But he always asked. Always checked. "Do you prefer white roses or gardenias?" "Do you want a veil?" "How many of your family should I seat in the front?"
He treated me like a partner. Not a prop. Not an afterthought.
And slowly — against every wall I'd built — I started to feel something.
Not love. Not yet. But the first, fragile thread of trust.
By morning, my phone had 47 missed calls.
Twelve from Dominic. Eight from Marcus. The rest — society gossips, family friends, people who suddenly remembered I existed. And one voicemail from Vivienne, her voice thin and trembling:
"Serena... what is this? Please tell me this is some mistake. Please call me back."
I deleted it.
Then I blocked her number.
...
Dominic showed up at my door by noon — no call, no warning. Just his fist hammering against the wood like he had the right.
"Open the door, Serena. Now."
I took my time. Fixed my hair in the mirror. Applied a fresh coat of lipstick. Then I opened the door, leaning against the frame like I had nowhere to be.
"Dominic. What a surprise."
He looked wrecked. Shirt half-untucked, hair wild, eyes bloodshot. He held up his phone — my wedding invitation glowing on the screen.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded.
"An invitation," I said calmly. "Surely you know what those look like."
"You're marrying Dante Valenti?" His voice cracked on the name. "The Dante Valenti? Have you lost your mind?"
I examined my nails. "I thought we were on a break. You told me to figure out what I want." I looked up at him. "I figured it out."
"This isn't — you can't—" He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward him. "Serena, this man is dangerous. His family—"
"More dangerous than yours?" I pulled free, rubbing my wrist. "Funny how you never worried about danger when you were sneaking around with Vivienne."
His face drained of color.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I know about the wedding, Dominic. Found the invitations in your desk three weeks ago. Ivory cardstock. Gold foil. Very tasteful."
"That's—I was going to tell you—"
"When? At the altar?" I stepped back. "It doesn't matter now. You made your choice. I've made mine."
"He's using you." Dominic's voice turned desperate. " Valenti doesn't do anything without an agenda. Whatever deal your father made—"
"My father didn't make me do anything," I said. "I called Dante myself. The night I found your invitations. I chose this."
Something broke in his expression — not heartbreak, but panic. The panic of a man realizing the quiet girl he took for granted had outplayed him.
"Serena, please." He reached for me again. "I made a mistake. Vivienne — she means nothing. She was just—"
"Your bride?" I supplied helpfully.
"No! I mean — things got out of hand. She said she was pregnant, I panicked—"
I went still. "Pregnant?"
He ran his hands over his face. "She said she was. I believed her. My family pressured me. But I never stopped loving you, Serena. You have to believe—"
"Get out."
"Serena—"
"I said get out."
He must have seen something in my eyes, because he stepped back. Then — one last look, pleading, pathetic — and he was gone.
I closed the door. Leaned against it. Let out one long, shaking breath.
Pregnant. She'd told him she was pregnant.
Was it true? Was it a lie? Did it even matter?
The man I'd loved for three years had chosen my stepsister — for whatever reason — and never once told me the truth.
My phone buzzed. Dante.
"He came to you," Dante said. Not a question.
"You were watching?"
"My men were. Are you alright?"
I straightened, staring at myself in the hallway mirror. The woman looking back had dry eyes, a set jaw, and a ruby ring that caught the light like fire.
"I'm fine," I said. "Don't cancel anything."
"I wouldn't dream of it." A pause. Then, softer: "Serena. You don't have to do this alone. I'm here if you need me."
I didn't know what to say to that — this man I barely knew, offering what Dominic never could.
"Thank you, Dante," I whispered.
And I meant it.
...
The next two weeks moved like a storm.
Dante handled everything — the venue, the flowers, the guest list, the security. Every detail was flawless. Every decision made with quiet precision.
But he always asked. Always checked. "Do you prefer white roses or gardenias?" "Do you want a veil?" "How many of your family should I seat in the front?"
He treated me like a partner. Not a prop. Not an afterthought.
And slowly — against every wall I'd built — I started to feel something.
Not love. Not yet. But the first, fragile thread of trust.