Hale shot to his feet.
“She’s lying!”
Luca turned slowly.
“Sit. Down.”
Hale didn’t move.
Two guards stepped closer.
He sat.
Isabella’s face had gone white.
Luca looked back at me.
“What did you see?”
“A small bottle. He poured something into the second glass.”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
Then he asked quietly,
“Did you see who gave him the bottle?”
My eyes moved toward Isabella.
She stared at me.
Warning me.
Begging me not to speak.
I swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
The entire room went silent.
“Who?”
My voice shook.
“Miss Romano.”
Isabella gasped.
“That’s a lie!”
Luca looked at her.
“Is it?”
She began crying.
“Darling, she’s trying to ruin our wedding!”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned toward Marco.
“Check the kitchen cameras.”
Marco nodded.
A minute later, the footage appeared on a tablet.
There was Isabella.
Standing beside Hale.
Handing him a tiny glass bottle.
Then pointing toward me as I entered the kitchen.
Luca watched without speaking.
His face grew colder with every second.
When the video ended, he looked at his fiancée.
“What was in that bottle?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you give it to him?”
“Luca, please—”
“What was in it?”
Her lips trembled.
Before she could answer, Marco’s phone rang.
He listened for several seconds.
Then his expression changed.
“Boss.”
Luca turned.
“What?”
“The medical team ran a preliminary test on the glass.”
The room fell silent.
“And?”
Marco swallowed.
“They found a substance consistent with a powerful sedative. The full analysis is still pending.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Luca looked at Hale.
Then Isabella.
And for the first time, I saw something terrifying in his eyes.
Not anger.
Recognition.
As though he’d seen this happen before.
He slowly removed his watch.
Placed it on the table.
Then turned toward the guards.
“Lock the doors.”
Heavy locks clicked into place.
Fifty guests began whispering.
Isabella backed away.
“Luca, you’re frightening everyone.”
He looked at her.
“Good.”
Then he turned toward me.
“Emma, I need you to tell me something.”
I nodded.
“Anything, sir.”
“Did Hale ever mention where he planned to take you after dinner?”
My blood turned cold.
Because he had.
While Isabella was speaking to another guest, Hale had leaned toward me and whispered:
Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll wake up somewhere beautiful.
I repeated his words.
Luca went completely still.
Then he looked toward Marco.
“Search Hale’s car.”
Hale jumped to his feet.
“You have no right!”
Luca didn’t even glance at him.
“Search it.”
Five minutes later, Marco returned.
His face was pale.
“Boss…”
“What did you find?”
“A suitcase.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“Whose?”
Marco looked at me.
Then back at Luca.
“Emma’s.”
My heart stopped.
“That isn’t possible.”
Marco opened the suitcase.
Inside were women’s clothes.
A passport.
An airline ticket.
And a photograph of me sleeping in my bedroom.
I covered my mouth.
Luca picked up the passport.
His expression changed.
“Emma.”
I looked at him.
“Have you ever been to Switzerland?”
I shook my head.
“No, sir.”
He slowly turned the passport toward me.
It had my photograph.
My birth date.
But a different name.
Elena Moretti.
The room went silent.
Luca stared at the document.
Then whispered,
“That was my wife’s name.”
I felt the floor tilt beneath me.
His wife had died five years earlier.
Everyone knew that.
But Luca was no longer looking at me.
He was looking at the photograph inside the passport.
Then at a tiny scar beneath my left eyebrow.
His face drained of color.
“Emma,” he whispered, “where did you get that scar?”
I touched my eyebrow.
“I’ve had it since I was a child.”
Luca stepped backward.
Because beneath the passport was another photograph.
A wedding photograph.
Luca Moretti stood beside a smiling woman in a white dress.
And the woman had my face.
Exactly my face.
Isabella suddenly screamed,
“DON’T SHOW HER THAT!”
But it was too late.
I had already seen the photograph.
And on the back, written in my own handwriting, were six words:
IF I FORGET HIM, MAKE ME REMEMBER.
I stared at the photograph until the faces began to blur.
The woman in the white dress had my eyes.
My mouth.
My cheekbones.
Even the tiny scar beneath my left eyebrow.
But that was impossible.
I had never worn a wedding dress.
I had never been married.
And I certainly had never married Luca Moretti.
“Where did you get this?” I whispered.
Nobody answered.
Luca stood across from me, holding the passport as though it might explode in his hands.
“Emma,” he said quietly, “I need you to look at me.”
I raised my eyes.
His expression frightened me more than his reputation ever had.
Because Luca Moretti looked like a man who had just seen a ghost.
