Page 85 of The Billionaire's Destiny

Buzz.

We both sighed and dragged ourselves out of bed. He disappeared into the shower while I padded over to the claw-footed tub, twisting the faucet open.

“You have time for that?” he asked. “Can’t be late for Santiago.”

Today, he would start his first sketches of me at the house, weaving me into the Marini family’s legacy. My portrait would fill the empty spot in my Florence bedroom where Aurora’s once hung. Marinis went back many generations, and it had me curious. “Where are all the family paintings kept?”

“At a private museum our family owns.”

“Just like the Medicis?”

“Yeah. One of our ancestors centuries ago thought it would be a good idea, and we’ve kept the tradition. But sometime later, the museum was made private.”

“Oh, I’d love to see it.” I turned off the tap and got into the tub, sinking under the water before coming up, pushing my hair back, and wiping my eyes. “Now I’m awake.” I grabbed a sponge and started washing as Rocco stepped out of the shower. He came over and raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten the rules?”

The painter Santiago and his team were sticklers for his rules. We received a list: no wet hair, makeup, or perfumes are allowed. “I know. Isla said a stylist would be there. It’ll be dry.”

“Okay…Oh, and as for the museum, there’s not much to see,” Rocco said. “The murals are faded; some are almost unrecognizable. I think we even have one in a Cubist style.” He wrinkled his nose.

I giggled. “Now, you’ve got me intrigued.” He leaned in closer, the faint aroma of his aftershave mingling with the scent of the water. As his lips met mine, a slow intensity built that rippled down to my toes. When we broke apart, his stare turned concentrated.

I smiled nervously. “What?”

“You,” he said. “You’re inspiring a vision. I can picture you as Ophelia drifting in a stream, flowers all around.”

I grimaced. “Too tragic. Let’s imagine something happy.” A quick thought of a future filled with laughter flashed through my mind. That was what I hoped for.

“Life can rise from horror,” he said. “That’s what I think.”

“You’re too deep,” I teased. He dunked me under the water with a grin, and when I surfaced, he stole a quick kiss before heading off to work, leaving me laughing and breathless.

I slipped out, threw on a scoop-neck shirt and jeans, and hurried down to where Zane waited by the car. “Ready.”

“Wet hair,” he warned.

“You too?Et tu Brute?”

We laughed together and made it back to the house just in time. I dashed upstairs, my heart skipping at the sight of the wedding gown designed by Nadia Crane. It had long sleeves and embroidered lace, flowing into a tulle skirt reminiscent of fairy tales. Suddenly, I was back in this room, nerves and excitement tangling inside me, trying to convince myself our arranged marriage was just a contract. It might have been if Rocco hadn’t gone out of his way to sweep me off my feet.

The stylist wasted no time parting my hair into sections. Two assistants wove fabric through my hair, then pinned it up as they helped me into the bodice. I stepped into the tulle cloud, grateful for their help with the satin buttons trailing up the back. The stylist brushed my brows and added a hint of gloss to my lips, just enough to bring out their natural pink.

When I finally looked in the mirror, my hair was a froth of curls, and my dress was long and elegant with lace flowers. I truly felt beautiful. Yet, it was more than just the reflection staring back at me. In that moment, I realized that the beauty I felt was not only external but also in the resilience it took to get here and embrace this new life. I made a silent vow to create my own happiness and not just do what was expected. I would make today my new beginning.

There was a knock at the door. I turned and saw Magda smiling, her eyes shining. “You look so beautiful, Adelina.”

“Thank you,” I said, walking over to clasp her hands. “How was your trip?”

“Wonderful, but nothing is like home,” Magda said. As she spoke, the faint strains of a traditional tarantella drifted in from a nearby room, blending with the aroma of rosemary and thymethat always clung to her clothes. From a mere glance out the window, we could see the Tuscan hills, which only deepened her sentiment. Florence was my home, too. “Yes, there’s nothing like it.”

“Oh, and Santiago is here,” she added with a light laugh, and I joined her.

“Thank you, Magda.”

As Isla and the stylist put the final touches on my hair and gown, I made my way to the stairs. Santiago stood below, a striking figure in a kurta, barefoot, with his long hair and beard giving him the air of a modern-day mystic. Yet, the flurry of assistants trailing behind and cameras clicking reminded me that this was a carefully orchestrated production, but his eyes were locked on me.

“Stop,” he commanded, holding his hand up.

I froze in place.