his very blood.
All he cared about now was destroying Jackson and keeping himself and Clio intact until the end of this marriage.
* * *
“If you want to leave all this behind, leave Stefan behind,” Zayed whispered in her ear even as he amiably tucked her bare arm along his under the watchful, hawk-like gaze of Stefan at the end of the vast hall on the other side, “then all you have to do is say so, Clio. I shall signal Rocco and a limousine will appear outside the hotel in a matter of seconds. In a few hours, you can be in Milan, or Hong Kong, or even Gazbiyaa if you don’t mind the stark and beautiful desert land of a country on the brink of war.”
Blinking, Clio tore her gaze away from Stefan’s olive green one. The Chatsfield glittered, and the hungry hush of designer-clad guests, a power list of New York’s Who’s Who, reached her in stifling waves.
They were all here to witness her union with one of the most sought-after bachelors in the world. Reminding herself to smile like a woman madly in love, she pasted a smile and turned toward Zayed.
And caught the scowl on her fiancé’s face in the infinitesimal moment before she turned.
They were standing at the entrance to the Terrace Room, as it was called, just beyond the French doors of the courtyard of the Chatsfield, a room steeped in history and charm.
The room boasted some of the most impressive historical detailing, created in the spirit of the Italian Renaissance. Exquisite crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the vast room in a golden glow.
Swallowing at the hard knot in her throat, she clutched Zayed’s fingers tightly and he returned the pressure. “I thought your loyalty would be to Stefan, Your Highness.”
“Not you, too, Clio,” Zayed warned her, still a glimmer of the playboy prince in his smile. In just a matter of days, Zayed had gone from second son to the ruler of Gazbiyaa. And Clio couldn’t even begin to imagine what must be going on in his head.
“I thought you would warn Stefan away from me, not the opposite.”
His deep brown eyes shining with kindness, his mouth set into that diplomatic half smile, Zayed shook his head. Why hadn’t she gone to him for help instead of the stubborn Sicilian?
“You forget that Rocco, Christian and I know you as well as Stefan does. And Stefan...he is more than a brother to me, but we have seen him become jaded and more hardened than the rest of us. I wouldn’t want my enemy’s daughter to be caught in that disdain of his. And you...you’re a friend, Clio.”
Clio hugged the warmth in his tone. “He did not force me into anything, Zayed,” she said, wanting to make sure they all understood. Every step of the way, Stefan had only prepared her for what was coming, including his disdain.
“This was my choice.” Whether right or wrong, she was glad that it was.
Zayed’s expression didn’t waver. “None of us want you to be hurt, Clio. He could very possibly do it, and then he won’t forgive himself, no?”
Her gut sinking, Clio finally understood their concern, understood the friction she had sensed between Stefan and the three of them the past two days.
Stefan thought they were all protecting her from him.
What he didn’t realize was that Rocco, Christian and Zayed were also looking out for him. They were afraid that by hurting her, he was going to irrevocably lose a part of himself.
A tightness emerged in her chest at the very thought and the sinking realization of how complicated the man she was about to marry was.
It’s the only way I can do this, Clio, he had said to her when she had signed the contract.
Was it the only way he thought of to protect their fragile relationship from what they were putting it through? And she resolved to not lose him, not to let this mutual need for revenge destroy them.
“I won’t let that happen, Zayed.”
Whether he believed her or not, Zayed patted her hand. “You have friends, Clio. Always remember that.”
Wetness filled her eyes, but Clio smiled through it.
Rocco and Olivia, Christian and Alessandra, and Zayed—all of them had hovered over her the past few days like mother hens.
It had felt incredibly good to know she had so many people who cared about her well-being.
With every detail of the most opulent wedding she had ever dreamed of taken care of, with the grand hotel decorated ornately for what the media were calling the “Fairy-Tale Wedding of the Decade,” with people who actually cared about her surrounding her, for a few compelling moments over the past week she could have almost fooled herself into believing it was the wedding she had wanted all her life.
Except for the man in the center of it all who hadn’t even looked her in the eye in a week, who had only spoken to her to discuss another blasted clause in the contract he had made her sign.
He had engaged an army of people to oversee every small detail of the wedding. Clio had barely had time to have second thoughts about how big a step she was taking.
Designers and lawyers, makeup artists and wedding planners—there hadn’t been a single thing that Clio herself had been responsible for. All she had to do was nod, and maybe use her brain cells to make a choice as to whether she wanted lilies or orchids or another exotic flower she couldn’t even remember the name of, whether she wanted chocolate cake or red velvet.
She had blanched when she had discreetly looked up the designer who had been hired to create her wedding gown in a week.
With delicate corded lace on tulle skimming the shoulders and neckline, the fragile gown had a line of buttons sneaking downward between her shoulder blades.
It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, and she couldn’t swallow the fact that it had been created with her in mind. Diamond bracelets, befitting Stefan Bianco’s intended, she had been told when she had argued, had been delivered in a velvet box, along with matching diamond earrings and the most elegantly designed diamond tiara.
She had been stunned at her own reflection, at how perfect the dress was for her slim build, how well it accentuated her almost boyish curves.
The diamonds had glittered and winked in the three full-length mirrors the hotel staff had set up.
And that’s when it had hit her.
The money he was spending on the wedding—she had given up adding once she had looked through the hotel’s website.
Which meant the cost of the wedding had to be astronomical.
Feeling as dirty as Jackson had called her, she had knocked on his study door one evening.
To find him at the rowing machine, dressed in shorts and bathed in sweat. It was a sight that was burned into her brain, her skin, her very cells.
The sight of his curling biceps, ropes of sweat-slicked muscles in his chest and back, the sleek contours of his torso, dissolved every brain cell into mush.
God,
