Chapter 1

Serena

I stand in front of the mirror, putting the finishing touches to my makeup. The lash extensions make my blue eyes appear larger and sexier, and my spray tan gives me a lovely glow. My skin is smooth and silky, thanks to the endless treatments and creams I use. I look good.

Tonight, my parents are hosting another one of their parties, this time to celebrate their most recent milestone in the real estate business they have established. My family is thriving, from luxurious apartments in Milan to countryside properties in Tuscany. They don’t just host these events to celebrate; they also serve as a reminder of who controls the market.

The party is being held in a posh hotel, and I’m in the hotel room, getting ready for the evening. I step into the dress laid out for me, a loose long lace dress that hides my curves. It’s a shade of pink chosen specifically by my mother, knowing how Salvatore always tells me he loves me in pink. The fabric admittedly doesn’t do my body justice, covering the figure I’ve painstakingly taken care of.

As I put on my heels, I take a deep breath to ground myself. These events are more than just parties—they’re exhibitions, where every smile, every word, is scrutinized. I’m expected to play my part, to be the epitome of elegance.

Salvatore enters the room, his presence as commanding as ever. His dark eyes rake over me, taking in my appearance with a look of approval. He looks as handsome as always, his broad shoulders and chiseled features enough to make any woman drool. His slicked-back hair highlights his sharp jawline and grey eyes.

His manliness and charisma are magnetic. He looks every bit the part of a powerful, successful man—the kind of man any woman would envy me for marrying.

"You look stunning," he says, his voice smooth and deep like melted chocolate. He approaches, adjusting a stray lock of my hair, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. Then, he presses a kiss on my shoulder, making me swoon.

"Thank you," I reply. Inside, my stomach churns with unease. These parties never get easier. The nerves refuse to dissipate. I know everyone is watching, judging, and waiting for me to slip up. It's a constant pressure to live up to the expectations of being Salvatore Agosti's wife. I've become skilled at concealing how much the pressure affects me, at suppressing my emotions.

We make our way to the party, the commotion growing louder as we approach. The space is crowded with the upper class. They are all dressed in their finest, engaging in shallow discussions solely to display status and network. My parents are at the center, basking in the yes men around them that do nothing but kiss their ass.

I take my place beside Salvatore, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist. The night is a blur of dull introductions and small talk, my practiced smiles and polite nods polished to perfection. I am a damn good actress.

I excuse myself from the party and head towards the restroom. The smile I’ve plastered on my face all evening feels like it’s cracking, and I just want a moment alone, away from all of this fakeness. The powder room is lavish, just like everything in this hotel. I rest against the sink, shutting my eyes and adjusting in my painful heels.

The door swings open, and a group of women enter. I quickly slip into one of the stalls before they see me, wanting to avoid more small talk. I sit on the toilet seat, waiting for them to leave, hoping they didn’t notice me.

"Did you see Serena tonight?" I hear, the voice dripping with disdain. "She looks like a Barbie doll, doesn't she?"

Another voice chimes in. "Oh, absolutely. Those boobs, though, they’re so obviously fake. And her nose—she’s had it done, right?"

I feel a flush of humiliation creeping up my neck. My fists clench on my lap as I listen to them tear me apart. I’ve made these augmentations way before I knew Salvatore, they are needed for our world. You can’t be ugly, you have to look like a model straight out of a magazine. At least that’s what my mother has always told me.

Did Salvatore know of all the things I'd done in order to fit into this world? Did he appreciate them, or did he view me as a fake blow-up sex doll like these girls do?

"Yeah, and her lips too. All filler. I mean, she’s pretty, but it’s all so… plastic," says another, a sneer evident in her tone.

"Salvatore seems happy with it, though," one of them giggles. "He’s always got his arm around her, showing her off like she’s his trophy."

My heart sinks at their words. I’ve always known people talk, but hearing it so bluntly, so cruelly, is not something I was ready for.

"Do you think their marriage was arranged?" one of the women asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I heard rumors that her parents groomed her to be the perfect wife for him."

"Of course it is," another responds. "I mean, look at her. Everything about her screams ‘perfect wife.’ They probably made her take up all those hobbies he likes—horseback riding, classical music, even the way she dresses. It’s all too convenient."

I rub my arms to comfort myself at what I’m hearing. I’ve always done those things because I thought they made me happy, but now… now I’m not so sure. The doubts I'd pushed aside for months surge forward.

"She’s like a doll they’ve dressed up for him. And those surgeries, all that maintenance—it’s all to fit his ideal, isn’t it?"

Their laughter echoes in the bathroom, making me feel small. I feel the walls closing in, the air becoming suffocating.

"But Salvatore is so dreamy," I hear. "I wouldn’t mind being in her shoes, even if it was all fake. I mean, who cares if it’s arranged? Look at their life. Look at him.”

I can’t listen anymore. I feel sick. I want to leap out of the stall and face them, but their words have frozen me in place.

"Do you think he really loves her?"

There’s a pause, then a cynical laugh. "Who knows? Maybe."

For the past couple of months, a nagging doubt has been growing in my mind. Despite how perfect everything appears, something feels off in my marriage. There are moments when Salvatore seems distant, his affection feeling rehearsed. I’ve tried to brush it off, telling myself I’m reading too much into things, but the worry won’t leave me.

It's rare to hear those three words from Salvatore. "I love you." They seem to stick in his throat. Instead, he mumbles a quick "me too" whenever I tell him I do. I always chalked it up to him not being the most affectionate. The seed of doubt they’ve planted begins to grow, winding its way around my heart, squeezing tight. What if they’re right?

The bathroom door slams shut behind them as they leave, and only then do I exit the stall. I adjust my perfectly styled hair, a shade lighter than my natural color, because I thought he would like it better.

A bitter taste fills my mouth as I reapply my lipstick. I shake off my anxiety and smooth down my dress before rejoining the party. This is not the time to break down.

Pulling myself together, I slip back into my act, my eyes scanning the crowd for Salvatore. The words I overheard still hurt, but I push them aside.

I spot him near the bar, talking to a couple I recognize from various social events. His intimidating presence is impossible to miss. I watch him for a moment, analyzing him in a different light. His interactions with others are so smooth, so effortless. He’s a magnet to everyone here, men want to be him, and women pray for a glance from him. I can’t help but wonder, though, how much of him is genuine, and how much is as manufactured as the persona I’ve been pressured to take on?

He catches my eye and calls me over with a slight nod. I walk towards him with my head held high. As I approach, he slips an arm around my waist, giving it a squeeze.

"Ah, there she is," Salvatore says. "Serena, I was just telling Charles and Sofia about your recent achievement."

I smile politely at the couple, my mind still reeling. "Good evening," I say, proud that my voice comes out steady.

"Congratulations on passing your bar exam, Serena," Charles says, shaking my hand.

"Thank you," I reply, forcing a smile.

Sofia nods, her eyes flicking between Salvatore and me. "You must be so proud, Salvatore," she says. "A lawyer in the family—how wonderful."

Salvatore's eyes narrow as Charles's handshake stays for a second too long. He subtly pulls my hand away from Charles's grasp, placing a kiss on it instead. "Absolutely," Salvatore responds. "Serena is truly remarkable."

The conversation continues, but my mind drifts. I start to notice the little things—Salvatore's body language, the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes. It's as if the veil has been lifted from my eyes.

"Serena," Sofia says, snapping me back to the present. "Are you planning to practice law, or do you have other plans?"

I hesitate, my memorized answer feeling hollow now. "I'm still exploring my options," I say finally, glancing at Salvatore. "But for now, I'm focusing on our family’s business."

"That's wonderful," Charles says, raising his glass. "To Serena and her bright future."

We all clink glasses. I take a sip of champagne, the bubbles doing nothing to lift the heaviness in my chest. Salvatore's hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, burning my skin through the dress.

As the couple moves on to mingle with other guests, Salvatore turns to me, his expression softening slightly as he pecks my lips. This would have made my heart flutter normally. Now, it feels like an act.

I gesture for him to join a group of men eager to speak to him and head towards a more secluded area. I can’t wait for this to be over. Just as I’m about to relax, I see my mother walking my way, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. I can’t catch a fucking break.

"Serena," she says, her voice a low murmur that carries so much expectation. "Come with me."

She guides me to a small alcove away from the main party. My mother turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my appearance.

"Your dress is lovely," she begins, her tone almost approving. "But there are a few things we need to talk about."

I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. This isn't the first time I've been subjected to one of my mother's "reviews." I brace myself, trying to keep my expression neutral.

"Your posture," she says, tapping a finger against my back. "Straighten up, dear. You don't want to look slouched, especially not tonight."

I adjust my stance, feeling the tension in my shoulders as I comply.

"And your tummy," she says, her gaze dropping to my midsection. "Are you going to the gym regularly? It looks like you've got a bit of a belly."

My cheeks burn with shame. "I've been trying, but it’s hard to find time."

"Make time," she insists. "You need to maintain your figure. It's crucial, especially considering your position."

Position. The role I've been groomed to play. My mother's relentless focus on physical perfection, on maintaining appearances, feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Had she and my father truly shaped me, molded me, to fit into Salvatore's world?

"Yes, Mother," I reply. "I'll make sure to address everything."

"See that you do," she says with a smile. "You have to be perfect. Your appearance reflects on all of us. And remember, this is for your own good. Men like Salvatore need constant reminders of why they chose you. You don't want him to stray, do you?"

The idea that my worth is tied to my looks, that I must constantly prove myself to keep him from straying, feels like a nightmare. Will I ever be good enough?

I’m going to get to the bottom of this. It makes sense now why Salvatore never lets me into his home office; he apparently has some things to hide. I am going to find out if this is all in my head, or if my whole life is truly a lie.