When My Fiancé Don Posed With My Sister, I Left
I went to try on my wedding gown with Lorenzo—my fiancé, the Don of the Morretti family. My younger sister, Serafina, begged to come along.
I stepped out from behind the velvet curtain. There she was, pinning a brooch to his lapel.
I opened my mouth to say, “Let me do that,” but the photographer had already turned to her with a grin. “Newlyweds, look this way.”
They both turned. The camera clicked twice, and the photographer brushed past me.
Ninety-nine shots. Every single one of Serafina and Lorenzo. Not one of me—the actual bride.
I stood there, hollow.
When we were children, they always played bride and groom. I clapped on cue. When we grew up, they sat at the head of family councils; I made their coffee and kept the kitchen running.
“Vittoria, hand me the veil.”
Lorenzo saw I hadn’t moved, walked over, and gently pulled the tulle from my stiff fingers.
“Why are you standing there like that? Go check the seating chart with the butler. I’ll join you after we finish Serafina’s shots.”
The photographer lifted one eye from behind his camera. “Miss Vittoria, would you step back a little? You’re blocking the light.”
I stepped all the way back to the heavy drapes by the window.
And right there, it hit me—how absurd this all was.
If this political marriage didn’t actually need me, then I didn’t need to show up for it either.