His Fake Wedding, My Real Love

The wedding date was set, the gown chosen, the announcements hand-delivered to every crew boss and allied family between Edinburgh and the coast. Yet it wasn't my wedding.

That evening, Catalina brought me tea, her expression dripping with mockery.

"Seraphina, even if the Cavalli name carries more weight than mine ever could, what does it matter? Niccolo still chose me."

As she spoke, the teacup in her hand tipped over, spilling scalding tea onto my leg. I jumped in pain, instinctively letting out a cry.

At the same time, Catalina shrieked dramatically, clutching her hand.

Niccolo came rushing in, his attention immediately on her. He grabbed her hand with a mix of panic and tenderness, inspecting the redness from the spill. Then he turned on me, his voice filled with reproach.

"Seraphina! Catalina came to apologize to you and this is how you repay her? How could you be so cruel as to burn her like this?"

Before I could respond, he was already pulling her away to treat her injury, leaving me standing there, my knee burning and the skin already broken from the scalding.

"Seraphina, do you think this gown suits me?"

Catalina's voice snapped me out of my memories. I looked at the phone she handed me.

On the screen was a photo of her wearing a stunning, luxurious gown — my gown. The one that had been fitted to my measurements at the atelier on Victoria Street, the one I'd paid for in full three months before she ever set foot in our home.

She smiled smugly. "Niccolo said you'd already paid for this dress, so I thought, why waste it? I'll take it."

Before she left, she flaunted the ring on her finger, twisting her hand in the light. Not a diamond from some jeweler's case. A pledge ring. A Krenn family piece that Niccolo had sworn would only ever belong to his wife.

"Seraphina, isn't this ring beautiful? Niccolo picked it out just for me."

Watching her saunter away, my hands balled into fists at my sides. The cold metal of my own ring pressed into my skin — a ring I had worn for five years.

It was the first gift Niccolo had bought me when his earliest rackets started turning real money. Before the crews, before the territory, before any of it. Just a boy from nothing, pressing a ring into my palm outside a chip shop on Leith Walk.

His promise echoed in my mind.

"Seraphina, this ring is my commitment to you. I'll never marry anyone else in this life. And on the day I make it — the day I have real power — I'll give you a bigger, finer ring, and every man in Edinburgh will know you're mine."

I slipped the ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash without hesitation.

Then I packed my bags, moved into a friend's vacant flat across the city and left the place I once called home. The building's front-door lock clicked shut behind me, and I did not look back.

The next day, Niccolo finally noticed my absence.

He called me, his tone filled with frustration.

"Where are you? Catalina found the ring I gave you in the trash. What's the meaning of this?"

He didn't wait for me to answer.

"I've explained everything to you. Can you stop being so unreasonable? It's just a ceremony and a ring! Whatever Catalina has, I'll make sure you have, too."

He paused before adding, "You've already waited for me for so many years — what's two more?"

I felt a wave of clarity wash over me. My voice was steady as I said, "Niccolo, we're over."

Then I hung up, blocked his number and cut off all contact.

I severed every tie to his operation the same day. No calls, no messages, no forwarded ledgers. Seven years of silent partnership, dissolved in an afternoon.

A week later, I finished handing over what remained of my responsibilities. The people I'd worked alongside — bookkeepers, logistics men, a few soldiers' wives who had become something close to friends — took me to a restaurant on Rose Street for a farewell dinner. The atmosphere was surprisingly lighthearted, until Tomaso Sinclair, three whiskies deep and emboldened by the looseness of the evening, decided to confess his interest in me in front of everyone.

Tomaso was notorious for his shameless mouth — a low-ranking soldier who talked more than he should and drank more than he could handle. I rejected him politely but firmly.

Feeling humiliated, he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

"I've heard all about you. Your man's dumped you and marrying some nobody from the south. It's a miracle anyone in this city would still want you, so why act all high and mighty?"

His vulgar tone sent a chill down my spine. I opened my mouth, ready to shut him down, when a shadow moved past me.

In a flash, a fist connected with Tomaso's face, sending him sprawling to the floor. His chair went with him, clattering against the tile.

Niccolo stood over him, radiating cold fury. The restaurant went silent. Every head turned. Two of Niccolo's men flanked the doorway, hands inside their jackets, watching.

"Do you think a scumbag like you has the right to insult my woman?" he said icily.

The room erupted in chaos. Chairs scraped back, voices rose, and the low murmur of gossip spread from table to table like a fire finding oxygen.

For a fleeting moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, Niccolo still cared for me.

But as soon as we stepped outside into the cold Edinburgh night, he dropped my hand, his face impatient and cold.

"Let's end this charade already," he muttered.

"Break up with me and you'll never find another man as good as me," Niccolo declared smugly. His hand drifted to the back of his neck, gripping it once before he caught himself and let go.

I stared at him coldly, my voice steady. "Why are you here?"

He smirked and handed me a wedding invitation. Heavy card stock, black ink, embossed. The names Niccolo Krenn and Catalina Orozco in formal script.

"I'm here to personally invite you to my wedding with Catalina. She said you're her only good sister in Edinburgh and hopes to have your blessing."

The audacity of his words struck me like a blow, but I maintained my composure. I forced a smile.

"Of course. I wish you a happy wedding."

Relief washed over his face, as if my response justified his betrayal.

"Now that's more like it," he said with a self-satisfied grin. "Don't worry, once her mother's dying wish is fulfilled, I'll give you an even grander ceremony. A proper one."

I didn't respond. Inside, my heart was filled with cold amusement.

Niccolo, I don't need anything from you anymore.

My hand drifted to my bare collarbone, and my fingers closed around nothing. He didn't notice. He never had.

That afternoon, I boarded a train south to London.