He Made Me the Bridesmaid, So I Left Him at the Altar

"What right do you have to ask me to forgive the person who almost killed me?"

If Luca had not blocked the knife for me that day, I might not even be alive now. But did that mean I had to be grateful forever? Did it mean that because he saved me once, he now had the right to decide whether my pain mattered?

I was not as generous as he wanted me to be. I could not smile and forgive a woman who had carved a permanent wound into my life.

Luca's face hardened. His tone became stern, carrying the same authority he used when giving orders to his men.

"Bianca, I'm doing this for your own good."

For my own good.

Those words were almost laughable.

"You've always been withdrawn," he said. "For years, Serafina was your only close friend. Why can't you bury the hatchet and rebuild that friendship?"

He looked at me as if I were the unreasonable one.

"People have to move forward in life, don't they?"

His words were firm, almost domineering. But the warmth he once had for me was gone. The tenderness I had once depended on had vanished completely.

Only command remained. Only judgment.

The pain in my abdomen grew sharper, twisting together with the ache in my heart until breathing became difficult.

But even through the haze of pain, I still saw it.

The hidden satisfaction in Serafina's tear-filled eyes.

It was the same look she had worn two years ago, on the day she went mad and destroyed my hands. Pitiful on the surface. Cruel underneath.

Serafina lowered her head, her voice trembling with perfectly performed remorse.

"Bianca, even if you don't forgive me, I'll keep repenting."

She sniffled softly.

"One day, I still hope we can be friends again."

The nausea rose in my throat. Every word from her felt filthy. Every tear felt fake. Every second I stood there with them made me feel as if I were being forced to swallow glass.

Finally, I could not bear it anymore.

I pressed my thumb hard against the pulse inside my wrist until my breathing steadied just enough to speak.

I stared at her and spat out two words through clenched teeth.

"Get lost."

I gripped the car door tightly, using it to keep myself upright.

The pain in my abdomen came in waves, each one sharper than the last. Cold sweat dampened my back, and my legs trembled so badly I could barely stand. The street noise around the fender-bender had gone on without us, horns and voices, but inside the narrow space between the two cars the air was dead still, the way it gets in a room right before a verdict is read.

But Luca did not notice.

Or perhaps he noticed and simply did not care.

Impatience was written all over his face.

"Bianca," he said coldly, "forgiveness is divine. Serafina has already paid the price. Are you trying to force her to die?"

His voice was full of concern.

The same kind of concern he had once shown me when I lay covered in blood after Serafina attacked me. Back then, he had held me in his arms, his eyes red with rage and fear. Back then, he had sworn he would never let anyone hurt me again. He'd made that promise the way made men make promises: with his hand over his heart and the name of his dead father on his lips.

But now, that same fear, that same protectiveness, was all for Serafina.

I stared at him, my heart aching so badly that it almost drowned out the pain in my body.

What had changed?

When did the man who once stood between me and danger become the man shielding my attacker from me?

With the last of my strength, I lifted my head and looked at him. His soldier waited three paces behind, eyes down, hand resting near the holster beneath his jacket. Even the muscle knew better than to interrupt when Luca DeLuca spoke.

"You're right," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. "Either she severs her own tendons, or she dies."

I forced out every word through the pain.

"Otherwise, I will never forgive her."