A complete stranger whispered those words beside my chair while my ex-husband watched from across the ballroom with the cousin he married after abandoning me pregnant.

The rotation of the waltz carried us past the orchestra mezzanine, sweeping us through the center of the polished floor where, moments ago, brides and grooms and high-society elites had danced with untouchable confidence.

Now, the floor belonged entirely to us.

Or rather, it belonged to the man whose hand was holding me so securely that every movement felt effortless, despite my trembling knees and my clearance-sale heels.

“You’re doing it again,” Giovanni murmured, his gaze dropping to my face.

“Doing what?” I whispered back, keeping my eyes fixed on the lapel of his tailored tuxedo to avoid looking at the dozens of horrified, curious stares burning into my skin from the sidelines.

“Holding your breath. You look like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming freight train, Jessica. Relax. I’m the one they’re staring at, not your dress.”

“Easy for you to say,” I retorted, a flash of sudden, defensive pride cutting through my panic. “You’re the one wearing a suit that costs more than my Honda Civic. I’m the woman who was sitting by the kitchen doors eating stale bread rolls three minutes ago.”

A low, rich rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest.

“Your shoes are fine,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “How could you possibly know about my shoes?”

“I notice things. It’s an occupational hazard.”

As we spun through another slow, sweeping arc, I caught a glimpse of table fourteen out of the corner of my eye.

Tyler had pushed his chair back so violently it had fallen over backward, clattering against the marble floor with a sharp, echoing crash that made several nearby guests jump. He wasn't looking at the fallen chair. His face was a mask of pale, mottled fury as he pushed his way through the crowd, heading directly toward the edge of the dance floor.

Beside him, Vanessa was holding onto his sleeve, her mouth open in silent shock, her pregnant belly pressing against her ivory gown as she tried to keep pace with him.

And standing near the grand staircase, the older woman in the severe black Chanel suit—the woman who had dropped her evening bag earlier—was marching toward us with the unmistakable, lethal stride of an apex predator defending its territory.

“Your audience is arriving,” I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Giovanni didn't even turn his head to look. “Let them come.”

“That woman in the black suit looks like she wants to feed me to the wolves.”

“That woman is my mother,” Giovanni replied smoothly, his tone flat and unbothered. “Elena Fierro. She has spent the last three years trying to merge our shipping logistics empire with the Sterling real estate conglomerate by marrying me off to Chloe. Interrupting her master plan is practically a capital offense.”

“And you decided to use me as your human shield?”

“I decided,” Giovanni corrected, pulling me slightly closer as the song began its slow, sweeping cadence toward the final crescendo, “to introduce my wife to my family.”

I stumbled over my own step. “Your—what? We established about five minutes ago that this was pretend!”

“Plans change,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the surrounding room dissolve into a complete blur. “Besides, look at them. Do you really want to go back to table fourteen?”

I looked past his shoulder.

Over Tyler’s shoulder, I saw my stepmother Eleanor standing near the buffet table, her face twisted in a mask of outraged disbelief, whispering furiously to a woman wearing three strands of fake pearls. I saw the way the guests at the neighboring tables were leaning in, whispering behind gloved hands, eager to witness the pathetic little nurse get put back in her place.

I thought about Lily waiting with the babysitter across town. I thought about the double shifts, the endless debt collection calls, the way Tyler had looked down at my repaired shoes with unadulterated contempt.

Something hot and sharp flared deep inside my chest—a sudden, fierce refusal to cower.

“No,” I whispered.

Giovanni’s lips curved into a genuine, approving smile that transformed his scarred, severe face into something striking.

“Good girl.”

The music swelled to its final note. As the quartet struck the last chord, Giovanni didn't drop his arm from my waist. Instead, he pulled me flush against his side, turning us gracefully off the dance floor just as Tyler Morehouse reached the edge of the mahogany perimeter.

“Jessica!” Tyler barked, his voice cracking with humiliated rage. He stepped directly into our path, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Giovanni stopped, placing me slightly behind his shoulder with an instinctive, protective movement that shielded me from Tyler’s immediate line of sight.

“Can I help you?” Giovanni asked, his voice dropping into a tone of chilling, glacial politeness.

Tyler ignored him, his eyes burning straight through Giovanni’s shoulder to lock onto mine.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Jess?” Tyler demanded, his voice rising enough to draw the attention of everyone within twenty feet. “You think because some guy in a rented tux—”

“He’s not wearing a rental, Tyler,” I interrupted, stepping out from behind Giovanni’s shoulder, my chin held high. My voice didn't shake. Not even a little bit. “And my name is Jessica.”

Tyler stared at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. “Have you lost your mind? You’re making a scene. You don't belong here—you don't even know these people!”

“Actually,” a smooth, heavy voice cut across the space like a razor, “she knows me quite well.”

Elena Fierro had arrived.

The matriarch of the Fierro family stood before us, her silver hair pulled back into an immaculate French twist, her black Chanel suit gleaming under the chandeliers. She didn't look at Tyler. She didn't look at Vanessa, who was now panting softly as she caught up to her husband.

Elena Fierro’s sharp, intelligent eyes fixed entirely on me.