When I woke up, I was in one of Lorenzo’s private medical suites. An IV was taped to my arm. The room smelled sterile and cold. My chest ached, but this time the pain had nothing to do with the allergic reaction.
Staring up at the ceiling, I finally made a decision I’d been avoiding for years. The marriage proposal my family had arranged long ago—the one I kept postponing, defending Lorenzo with excuses—I finally accepted it.
Yes.
My mother didn’t hesitate. She never did. The moment I returned to the apartment and shut the door behind me, my phone began buzzing nonstop. One message after another filled the screen—venues secured, designers contacted, guest lists approved, timelines locked in. Everything moved with ruthless efficiency.
I scrolled until I reached her final message.
I always knew Lorenzo wasn’t your future. A man who wants to marry a woman doesn’t make her wait eight years. You still have time, Sofia. Everything is ready.
Another message followed seconds later.
The ceremony is in three days. Bring only what you need. Don’t complicate things.