

On my wedding day, I slept for six hours inside my own dressing room. By the time I reached the DeLuca family chapel in the Hudson Valley, Matteo had already completed the entire ceremony with his childhood friend, Sofia Rinaldi, the daughter of one of the DeLucas’ oldest allied families. She wore the gown I had spent six months designing and the pearl tiara passed down through generations of DeLuca women. Allies from New York, Chicago, and Sicily had witnessed everything. No one had saved a place for the real bride. Matteo looked at my pale face and explained calmly. “Sofia put the sedative in your tea. She only wanted one wedding. The dose was small, so there is no reason to make this into something bigger.” Everyone waited for me to cause a scene. I only let out a quiet sigh and looked at Matteo with disappointment. My family had given me one final chance to marry for love. Now that the wedding had failed, I had to return to Sicily, obey their decision, and inherit the family.

On the wedding day, the career-driven businesswoman Eloise discovered that her groom Eugene was having an affair with her cousin Vicki. She decisively exposed their scandal at the wedding scene. However, Eugene and Eloise's relatives became furious and shifted all the blame onto Eloise for being devoted to her work and unwilling to be a homemaker. Eloise was infuriated by their shamelessness and, at the wedding, declared that she would hire a husband with a high salary, thinking it was just an impulsive act of venting her frustration. But Alphonse, the CEO of Blossom Group, raised his hand and expressed his desire to become Eloise's husband. Eloise was very surprised but didn't think much of it, believing Alphonse was just a cash-strapped hotel worker. Thus, the two ended up having a spontaneous marriage. What kind of sparks would fly between them next?

I secretly married Don Matteo, the most feared man in New York. For five years, he promised me a real wedding in front of the Five Families. He promised me ninety-nine times. And ninety-nine times, he left me at the altar—for his childhood sweetheart, Cecilia. Every time, she had an emergency. Every time, Matteo chose her. I cried. I begged. I even held a gun to his head. But he only sneered, “She’s nothing. You’re Mrs. Falcone. Know your place.” Until the ninety-ninth time. I finally stopped waiting. I placed the divorce papers—and the Falcone family alliance contract—before him. “Our marriage is over.” “So is our alliance.”