The Italian

“Giorgio, you need to prepare yourself for the fact that I might not be able to wear Valentino,” I call. “I have a lot of beautiful dresses at home. I can just wear one of those.”

“Nonsense.” He huffs. “If there’s nothing here you like, we’ll be making you something. This is the biggest event in Milan.”

I flick the curtain open and poke my head out. “What is?”

“The engagement party, of course.”

“There’s only fifty people coming.” I frown.

Giorgio laughs at my horrified face. “Darling, have you seen the front page of the paper today?”

“No, why?”

“I’ll find a copy for you.” He closes the curtain in my face. “Try the next dress on. You are quite the celebrity now.”

I flick the curtain open again in surprise. “Who? Me?” I scoff.

“Darling, you are marrying Enrico Ferrara, the king of Italy. What did you expect?”

I roll my eyes and flick the curtain closed.

“He’s kept you relatively well hidden up until now. But from here on in, you are officially the property of Italy. Everything you do and w

ear will be splashed across every magazine in the country. Look at Bianca. She’s the envy of every woman—the queen of fashion.”

My anxiety begins to grow. “We need to find a fucking dress.”

“Okay then. Next,” he says, his urgency growing along with mine.

I begin to try on the next dress, and I hear him talking to someone. “Do you have a copy of today’s newspaper?” He listens for a moment. “Can you chase one up for me, please?”

I pull up the dress and look in the mirror. It’s a deep red fabric, and it’s strapless with a rouged kind of look to it. I turn and look at my behind. This one is better.

I flick open the curtain and Giorgio’s eyes light up.

“Oh, Olivia.” He gasps as he spins me away from him and inspects my behind. “Oh, yes, I like this. I like this a lot.”

I wiggle my hips in the mirror with a cheeky smile. “Me, too.”

“Here you are.” Someone hands Giorgio a newspaper, and he smiles as he studies it.

He holds it up, and on the front page is a picture of me. I can’t understand what it says. It’s written in Italian.

“What does it say?” I ask.

“Enrico Ferrara chooses his queen.”

“That’s the headline?”

He kisses my cheek. “It takes a brave woman to love a Ferrara man.”

I smile, but my heart drops. “Why do you say that?”

He takes my hand in his. “Nothing really, just not everyone is cut out for the life of a Ferrara man, that’s all.” He flicks the curtain shut and I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

An insidious festering fear begins to swirl in my stomach, like the calm before the storm. It takes a brave woman to love a Ferrara man.

Bravery has never been my strong point.