Chapter 143
LEVI
The engagement party was slated to start at 4 p.m. It was 3:30. I was ready. And Isabella wasn’t.
I knew this because I’d already spoken to her stylist—five times, maybe six. They’d been dressing her for almost five hours now. Five damn hours. And still, no sign of her.
That’s what I get for hiring one of the most expensive stylists in America. She probably thinks tonight will define her entire career. I get it—perfection is her brand. But she’s a stylist, not a fairy godmother. I didn’t ask her to transform Isabella.
Not that Isabella needs transforming. God, no.
I like her the way she is—fuck, I love her the way she is. Just as she is every day: grumpy and gorgeous, her hair a mess sometimes, her voice soft even when she’s mad. Those warm brown eyes, that lush mouth, the scent of her hair—a bloom of roses. She’s everything.
But tonight isn’t just about me and her. It’s about appearances. Legacy. Power. And perception.
I want her to feel like a Ferrari—sleek, bold, intimidating. I want her to walk into that room and command it. Not just command it, but believe she can. To silence the whispers before they begin. Because I know how people will look at her once they learn we met at a bar—how they’ll question whether she’s good enough, polished enough.
So no, it’s not about changing her. It’s about helping her see what I already know.
And when she looks like a goddess—when she feels like one—there’ll be no room for doubt. Not from them. Not from her.
I had handpicked every single guest. Every name on that list went through me. I thought my father—pleased as he claimed to be—would want to add a few of his own. Friends. Allies. Loyalists. But he didn’t. Not a single name. He simply said he’d invite them to the wedding.
That silence... it felt deliberate. Heavy. Almost like a warning.
Still, I ignored it. I had other things to focus on.
Truthfully, I was indifferent about most of the fifty guests.
I didn’t have many friends—never cared to collect them. Most of the names belonged to business associates. People I’d shaken hands with over deals and dinners. People whose smiles rarely reached their eyes. It wasn’t a guest list built on love. It was a portfolio. A curated audience of power, relevance, and appearances—an obligation to the expansion of the Ferrari empire and to me, finally taking the reins of it all.
But a few names mattered. Tony. Mr. Sebastian. Leroy. The only three I actually gave a damn about tonight. The rest could vanish into smoke, and I wouldn’t flinch.
And then, there were the surprises.
Some childhood friends had said they’d come. People I hadn’t seen in years. I’d invited them on a whim—more out of nostalgia than expectation—assuming they’d ignore it. But they promised they’d show.
It would be good to see them again. To be reminded that maybe, despite the walls I’ve built and the silence I’ve mastered, I still belong somewhere. That someone, somewhere, remembers the boy I used to be, before all this became my world.
Still, I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d walk in and see only strangers. Polished smiles from people I didn’t care about—and who didn’t care about me. And that the people I actually wanted to see wouldn’t come.
But I let go of that fear. Eventually.
Because none of them mattered—not compared to her.
All of this—this spectacle, this stage, the wine, the diamonds, the view of the ocean, the curated perfection—was for one reason: I just wanted to marry Isabella.
And I didn’t want anyone—especially her—to even suspect this was a contract marriage.
So I had to make it feel real. Real enough to fool even the bride.
It had to match the taste of a Ferrari. Because that’s what she was stepping into—my world. My legacy. My name.
And whether she knew it or not, she deserved the best of it.
That was the truth beneath everything else. The only one that mattered.
Even if I was still a little mad about the prank she pulled. Just a little.
She wasn’t laughing anymore by the time we left the mall. I’d made sure of that—with a few small doses of revenge and silence. I still hadn’t said a word to her since.
She would have to come to me. She’d have to kneel—literally—and beg me for forgiveness. That was the plan.
If I didn’t go mad before that.
Because, truthfully, I missed her. Pathetically.
I missed her snide remarks. Her muttered insults. Her heat. Her chaos. I missed the curve of her mouth when she was pissed off, the storm in her eyes when she was done playing nice. I missed her touch—God, her touch. And her maddening stubbornness.
Yesterday, in the changing room at the mall, I came this close to reminding her who she belonged to. I should’ve bent her over that bench. Made her forget her name. Branded her with my need. My anger. My possession.
But I didn’t.
Because of my stupid, fucking ego.
Fuck me.
Just thinking about it made me hard again. I shifted on the barstool, one leg twitching, and grabbed my wine glass, downing half of it in a single swallow.
The alcohol didn’t help. It never did.
“Guests have started to arrive,” my driver said as he approached, quiet and efficient.
I nodded but didn’t move.
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