He did not run.
He didn’t have to.
People moved out of his way as if the air itself had warned them.
Leonardo looked up and froze.
“Stay out of this,” he snapped.
Damian didn’t even glance at him.
He crouched beside you, one knee touching the marble floor, and carefully lifted your veil.
The room held its breath.
His eyes moved across your face.
At first, all he saw was bridal makeup—perfect skin, painted lips, soft blush.
Then his thumb brushed near your cheek, where the sweat had loosened the foundation.
The makeup smeared.
A dark purple bruise showed underneath.
A woman gasped.
Your mother covered her mouth.
Your father closed his eyes like a man hearing a sentence he already knew was coming.
Damian’s expression did not change.
That made it worse.
Because his stillness was not calm.
It was control.
He looked at Leonardo.
“Who did this to her?”
Leonardo laughed once, sharp and nervous.
“She fainted. Brides faint. Don’t create drama.”
Damian’s voice stayed low.
“I asked who hit her.”
The ballroom became so quiet you could hear the soft buzz of the camera lights.
Leonardo stood.
His perfect groom’s smile returned, but it sat wrong on his face.
“You are a guest here, Salvatore. Act like one.”
Damian rose slowly.
He was not taller than every man in the room, but somehow he seemed larger.
“I was invited by the bride’s father,” he said.
Leonardo’s eyes cut toward your father.
Your father flinched.
Damian noticed.
So did you, though you could barely keep your eyes open.
