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At our wedding rehearsal dinner, my fiancé, Graham, slapped me across the face in front of both our families. All for his mother’s goddaughter. On the spot, I took off my engagement ring, called off the wedding, and withdrew every commitment my family had made to the marriage. Everyone in our world—all of Chicago—thought I was just making a play, forcing him to bend. After all, I’d been at Graham’s side since I was fifteen. Everyone assumed I would one day be the wife of the Moretti family heir. They were all wrong. Later, he cornered me, his eyes filled with disbelief. “You’re going to throw away seven years over one slap?” I met his gaze, my voice flat. “Yes. Because you hit me.” ... The moment the slap landed, the bridal suite fell silent. The back of my pearl earring dug into my cheek, the sharp post scraping my skin. The Moretti women stood by the door with our two wedding witnesses. Not one of them said a word. Graham’s hand was still raised. For a split second, he looked startled, but the hesitation vanished as quickly as it came. He lowered his voice, the familiar command of an heir lacing his tone. “Don’t make a scene. People are waiting outside.” Sloane rushed to his side. She was wearing my veil—the one I was meant to wear tomorrow. The sapphire necklace around her throat was mine, too. It had been my grandmother’s, then my mother’s. Tomorrow, I was supposed to walk down the aisle wearing that necklace, marrying Graham not just as a woman, but as a Vitale. Sloane clutched his arm, tears welling instantly. “Graham, don’t. It’s my fault. I just wanted to see how it looked. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have been joking around.” After her father died, the Morettis had taken her under their protection. But that protection didn’t give her the right to steal from the bride. She cried like a frightened child, as if I were the outsider, the one who didn’t belong. Graham didn’t even glance at the mark on my face. He checked Sloane’s wrist first,
