Chapter 2 - The Lion’s DenThe microphone feedback hummed softly against the marble walls of the Bellmont Grand as Elena Fierro’s words hung suspended in the air. Every single guest turned to stare at us. My skin prickled with heat, and for a fleeting second, the old insecurity threatened to drown me—the suffocating feeling of being the poor relation, the outsider crashing a world I didn't belong in.
I shifted my weight, trying to step back from Giovanni’s embrace. "Your aunt is making her move. Let me go, Giovanni. This was a mistake. I can slip out the side exit before—"
Before I could finish the sentence, Giovanni’s hand tightened firmly on my hip, anchoring me against him with immovable strength. He didn't look at his aunt. He looked down at me, his amber eyes steady, blazing with an intense, protective fire.
"Never run from a wolf, Jessica," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Especially not one wearing Chanel."
He didn't release my hand. Instead, with a calm, deliberate composure that bordered on terrifying, he raised his free hand and signaled the sound technician. Within two seconds, a wireless microphone was detached from the stand and handed down by a terrified-looking young DJ.
Giovanni caught the mic out of the air without breaking stride. He didn't raise his voice, yet the acoustic perfection of the ballroom carried every single syllable to every corner of the room.
"A ghost, Aunt Elena?" Giovanni’s voice echoed smoothly, a polite, chilling amusement lacing his tone. "Hardly. A ghost implies she isn't real. And I assure you, my wife is very, very real."
A collective gasp rippled through the tables. Across the room, my mother dropped her linen napkin into her lap, her mouth opening in a silent, horrified O. Beside her, Sandra—who had planned the seating chart to humiliate me—turned white as a sheet.
Elena Fierro’s jaw tightened, the carefully sculpted lines of her face twitching with suppressed rage. "An impulsive courthouse wedding with a woman none of us have ever met, Giovanni? Without consulting the family council, without a formal announcement, and without a background check? You expect us to believe that the sole heir to the Fierro Holdings empire simply picked up a bride off the street?"
"Not off the street," Giovanni replied smoothly, his thumb casually tracing a slow circle against the back of my hand. "At the Mercy General pediatric ward. I was visiting a charitable trust endowment, and I found the most brilliant, compassionate, and stubbornly independent woman in the city. We realized immediately that we had no time to waste on your archaic family traditions, Auntie. So we made it legal."
I stared up at him in sheer disbelief. He was weaving a masterpiece of absolute fiction with the casual grace of a master storyteller.
Elena stepped down from the dais, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she marched directly toward the center of the dance floor. Behind her trailed the humiliated brunette fiancée and, to my utter shock, Tyler, who had finally shrugged off my father’s grip.
"This is an absurd fabrication," Elena snapped, stopping three feet away from us. Her eyes raked over my hair, my dress, and my shoes with undisguised disgust. "Look at her, Giovanni. She’s a pediatric nurse from a middle-class family with zero corporate pedigree. She doesn't even know which fork to use at a state dinner, let alone how to manage a multibillion-dollar estate. Who are you trying to fool?"
The insult landed like a physical blow. My cheeks burned, and I opened my mouth to fire back—to tell her that I saved children's lives while she spent her days plotting mergers over brunch—when Giovanni stepped half an inch forward, placing his body squarely between my face and Elena’s toxic glare.
The air around us dropped ten degrees.
"Watch your tone, Elena," Giovanni whispered. It wasn't loud, but the lethal snap in his voice made the older woman flinch. "You are speaking to my wife. You are speaking to the woman who now bears the Fierro name. If you ever disrespect her in public—or in private—you won't just lose your seat on the board of directors. You’ll lose your allowance."
Elena’s face drained of color. For all her high-society arrogance, she knew better than to test Giovanni when his predator mask slipped into place.
Then, a harsh, grating laugh cut through the tension.
It was Tyler. He pushed past the perimeter of onlookers, his face flushed with wine and wounded ego, pointing an accusing finger directly at me.
"Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fierro!" Tyler sneered, his voice loud enough to echo off the walls. "She’s a fraud! She’s my ex-wife! We literally signed divorce papers six months ago, and she’s been living in a crummy one-bedroom apartment raising my kid! She doesn't know any billionaire—she was crying in the corner over her cheap shoes twenty minutes ago!"
Silence slammed back down onto the ballroom. Heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Every head snapped from Tyler to me, then back to Giovanni. My stomach plummeted into a bottomless pit. The secret was out. The fragile castle of lies had just been blown wide open by a petty, bitter ex-husband.
I braced myself for the humiliation. I waited for Giovanni to drop my hand, sigh, and walk away, realizing he had picked up a broken, messy burden.
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Instead, Giovanni didn't flinch.
He slowly turned his head, looking at Tyler as if the man were a particularly annoying insect crawling across his polished shoe.
