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“What am I going to do?”she whispered to the empty room.“He’ll kill me for this.”

As far as her father was concerned, she was already ruined.It wouldn’t matter that nothing had happened last night, that she hadn’t even known where Salvatore had slept.The simple fact that she had spent the night in another man’s suite was enough.

Though she did remember being carried upstairs.She remembered laying her head against his wide shoulder, the strange sense of safety that had stolen over her.

For one blissful moment, she had thought he was carrying her away from all her problems.She hadn’t realized those problems would multiply tenfold come morning.

Her gaze dropped to the wedding dress laid out across the bed.Exquisite.White silk and soft tulle, glowing in the light.

She had two choices.

She could slip back into yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, walk out to face her father’s fury, and accept the inevitable punishment.

Or…she could put on the wedding dress.Step into the unknown.Place her life in the hands of a stranger who claimed he would protect her.

Or she could run.

But seriously—how would that even work?She had no money.No skills.She didn’t even know how to drive, thanks to her father refusing to let her learn.

The bleak truth sank in, cold and sharp.Running wasn’t an option.

So she made her decision.She was going to trust the stranger.She was going to survive.Damn it, she wasn’t going to be a victim anymore.If Salvatore Romano turned out to be like her father, if he hit her, then she would lie, cheat, and steal until she scraped together enough to get away.Maybe she’d only last a few months, but at least that time would be hers.

If she went back to Enrico Bianchi, her life was already over.

At least with Salvatore, she had a chance.A terrifying chance.But that was more than she’d ever had before.

With trembling hands, she stepped into the wedding dress.The silk clung softly to her skin, foreign and luxurious.On the dresser, she found a bag stocked with makeup, shoes, even lingerie so delicate and beautiful it looked like it had been stolen from the pages of a glossy magazine.

She added only a light layer of makeup, her hands shaking too much for anything more.Her hair…there was nothing she could do.The pins from last night were gone, lost on the hotel floor.So she used the hotel’s blow dryer and finger-combed the curls until they looked halfway civilized.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best she could manage.

She stared at her reflection.Pale face.Eyes too wide.Curls loose around her shoulders.Not a bride.Not really.

“You’re going to regret this,” she whispered to the mirror.

“No, you won’t,” came a deep voice from behind her.

Catarina spun, heart lurching, to find herself staring into the dark, unreadable eyes of the man who might—heaven help her—become her husband.

“I didn’t give you permission to enter,” she snapped, too startled to temper her tongue.Her hand flew to her stomach, her bravado crumbling.“Sorry,” she whispered, bowing her head in the stance of practiced submission.

“Cata,” he said, stepping closer.“You don’t need to fear me.I’m not your father.”

The words pierced deeper than she expected.Her head lifted slightly, her pride stung, and she glanced around, realizing with shame how automatic her response had been.Not fighting back.Not running.Not even standing tall.Her instinct was always submission.

No.Not anymore.

She raised her chin higher, defiance sparking in her chest.“I will run away if you beat me,” she blurted, her voice steady even as every muscle in her body tensed, bracing for the strike.

But it didn’t come.

She realized she’d closed her eyes, waiting for pain.When she opened them again, Salvatore was still standing there, his gaze steady, his expression…concerned.

“Eventually,” he said gruffly, his hand unexpectedly gentle as he brushed her cheek, “you’ll learn that I don’t beat women,cara.”

The tenderness rattled her.