“I’m fine,” I said softly, though my voice shook. “Lily—”
“I’ve got her,” he said. Calm. Certain.
Then, finally, he turned.
“My name is Alexander Virelli.”
The reaction wasn’t immediate. Not loud. But it was visible. Recognition doesn’t always explode—it spreads. One person whispers. Another stiffens. Someone pulls out their phone. And then it clicks.
Mark’s face drained of color.
Because he knew.
Of course he knew.
Everyone in his world knew.
Alexander wasn’t just rich. He was untouchable. The kind of man who didn’t attend weddings—he funded them. Owned the venues. Bought the companies that catered them.
And my husband.
My secret husband.
My father laughed nervously. “Well, Mr. Virelli, I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
“No,” Alexander said, cutting him off without raising his voice. “There hasn’t.”
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
He stepped closer, his presence forcing people to shift without realizing it. “I watched the security footage on my way here.”
That landed.
Hard.
Because suddenly this wasn’t a story anymore. It was evidence.
“You put your hands on my wife,” he said, looking directly at my father. “And threw my daughter into a fountain.”
The word my echoed louder than anything else.