I couldn’t take my eyes off Andrea. It was hard to believe she was the same person I met just two months ago. She was dressed in an elegant, high-neck white gown, sophisticated in its simplicity. Though it covered her from head to toe, the gown somehow made her look ethereal, almost otherworldly.

I made a mental note to thank the makeup artist personally—the work was flawless, enhancing Andrea’s features just the right amount, subtle yet perfect.

After Michael and Christina exchanged their vows, it was our turn. I stepped up to the altar, my pulse steady, and Andrea followed, standing opposite me. As the priest guided us through our vows, I caught myself stealing glances at her. She remained poised, her expression unreadable, as it had been from the very beginning.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest announced. For a fleeting second, something flickered in Andrea’s eyes—something I couldn’t quite place. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, and her face returned to its blank, composed mask.

Christina, on the other hand, wore her heart on her sleeve throughout the ceremony. I could see the hope flicker in her eyes, then waver when she faced Michael's eternal stoicism. A brief light returned when he vowed to love her, but she must know better than to expect love in our world. Even if love was possible here, Michael was the last person who could offer it. He had been broken once and rebuilt himself without warmth, much like me.

At least I had learned to show some emotion; Michael, though—his face betrayed nothing, almost as if carved from stone. The only thing I am certain about him is this: he would die to protect Gabrielle or me, just as I would lay down my life for them.

Love, though? That was never part of the equation for us.

I grabbed Andrea by the wrist and pulled her toward me, feeling her tense for just a moment. She winced slightly, involuntarily, and I made a mental note to find out what had caused her discomfort. I pressed my lips against hers gently, aware that deepening the kiss in front of everyone might not be something Andrea was comfortable with. I didn’t mind public displays of affection, but she was different. Always so composed, guarded.

The kiss was brief, if you could even call it that, and afterward, I led her onto the dance floor as the music began. We moved slowly in time with the melody, her movements fluid and graceful, as if she were made for this kind of elegant display. My arm was wrapped around her waist, and I held her other hand gently in mine. Her free hand rested lightly on my shoulder, so delicate that I could barely feel her touch. From the corner of my eye, I could see Michael and Christina dancing as well, though their rhythm seemed more stilted—Michael, as always, a fortress of stone.

Soon, other couples joined us on the floor. After the first song ended, I stepped away from Andrea and turned toward Christina, offering her my hand for the next dance. Michael, in turn, asked Andrea to dance, as was the tradition in our family. The men of the groom’s side were expected to take a turn with the bride shortly after the ceremony.

Christina danced with the same grace as her sister, but there was a distinct fragility about her that Andrea lacked. She moved as if she might shatter at any moment, and I could feel the tension in her body. Her nerves were palpable, and for reasons I couldn’t quite grasp, she seemed almost afraid—like she expected me to harm her in the middle of the dance floor.

“You look stunning,” I said, my tone soft, trying to put her at ease. “And surprisingly, so does your sister.”

Christina gave me a small, hesitant smile. “She dressed that way on purpose that day,” she said quietly, almost conspiratorially. “To provoke Dad. And you. Did you know she did my makeup as well?”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Andrea did your makeup?” I hadn’t known that. Christina’s makeup that day had been noticeably more subtle than today’s, but it had definitely brightened her features.

“She overdid hers on purpose,” Christina added, a touch of laughter creeping into her voice.

I chuckled, though the humor didn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m surprised she didn’t get in trouble for that,” I said, flashing the practiced smile I’d perfected over the years.

A shadow flickered across Christina’s expression, dark and fleeting. “She did,” she muttered, almost to herself, but loud enough for me to catch.

Her words lingered in the air, cryptic and unsettling. I was about to ask her to explain when the song ended, and we were interrupted by her brother, Matteo. He approached with a wide smile that was too sweet to be genuine, his presence suddenly casting a heavy atmosphere over us.

“Christina, wouldn’t you like to dance with your brother?” he asked, his voice smooth and saccharine.

Christina’s entire body tensed as she spun around, startled by Matteo’s sudden appearance. Her hand shot out, gripping my forearm with surprising force. Her nails dug into my skin with such intensity that anyone else might have winced in pain, but I kept my expression calm, though my mind raced with confusion. She didn’t let go, her fingers clutching my arm as if she were holding on for dear life.

I glanced down at her hand, then back at her face, my confusion deepening. What the hell is going on?

Matteo reached out for Christina, but before he could touch her, an arm shot out from behind me and seized his. It was Andrea, her face a mask of rage and determination. The intensity in her eyes was chilling, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“What did I tell you would happen if you dared touch her again?” Andrea's voice was low and menacing, each word dripping with threat. The cold fury in her tone made the air around us seem to tighten. If looks could kill, Matteo would already be six feet under. Her grip on Matteo’s arm was so tight that her knuckles were white, trembling with the force of her restrained anger.

What the fuck!