Wear My Dress, Meet My Gun

"Have Zeke strip me?" Jella doubled over laughing like I'd just told the best joke ever. "You're nuts. You'll say anything. Strip me? Please. Last time someone spilled coffee on me, my brother broke her arms and legs."

I froze.

The Zeke I remembered was all charm and manners.

Now he was snapping bones for her?

Yeah. I'd seriously underestimated whatever twisted thing they had going on.

Sleeping with his stepsister and risking total disgrace? That wasn't just messy—it was unhinged.

I took a slow breath, trying to keep my cool.

Back when Zeke was still trying to impress me, he had my initials stitched into the hem of the dress. The staff had to know.

I handed a business card to one of the staff. "I'm the owner of that dress. Ask her to take it off."

Jella cracked up. "Seriously? Zeke brought me here himself. Every detail was customized for me."

The clerk gave a tight nod and slid my card right back. "Miss, please don't stir up trouble. That gown belongs to Ms. Santoro."

I blinked. "You didn't even check the name. And you're that confident?"

The staff's smile dropped. "I personally handled her order. The dress fits her perfectly—it's clearly not yours. Keep this up and I'll have to call security."

The customers jumped in, loud and smug.

"Faking a claim to a wedding dress? How desperate can you get?"

"Ms. Santoro's so patient. I'd have called the cops by now."

"Messing with the Santoro family? Please. One word from them and her whole bloodline disappears."

Jella looked like she was about to sprout wings from all the attention.

She put on this fake-sweet smile. "People who cross me usually land in prison, but lucky you—I'm in a good mood. Just head to the entrance, yell 'I'm a whore, I'm sorry' three times, and I'll let it go. Sound fair?"

In twenty-seven years, no one had ever tried to humiliate me like this.

"You want me to say what?"

"You deaf? 'I'm a whore! I'm a whore!' Not hard to understand."

I laughed, cold and sharp. "Good to know you're the whore."

Jella blinked, then her face twisted when it hit her—she'd been played.

Fuming, she grabbed a cup of steaming tea and launched it at me. "Damn you! You dare mess with me?!"

I ducked, but some still splashed, searing a line across my cheek.

That was it.

I snatched a shard off the floor and dragged it across her face.

Blood came quick.

Gasps hit like fireworks. Hands slapped mouths.

Yeah, guess Jella Santoro wasn't used to being touched—let alone scratched.

"She's Zeke Santoro's sister! This psycho's dead meat!"

"That man's obsessed with her—she's his whole damn life!"

"Not even the Pope could get her outta this."

"Sister?" I scoffed. "Since when do sisters sleep with their brothers?"

I turned to the staff, voice like ice. "Listen up. I'm Natalia Accardi. That name on the dress? Natalia. Accardi."

The clerk flinched hard. Someone muttered, "We should call the designer... figure out what's happening..."

"Screw that!" Jella shrieked, clutching her face, eyes wild and blazing. "Call security! This bitch is dead!"

I tilted my head. "Still yappin'? Want a matching scar?"

She jerked back, hands flying to her face. I smirked, eyes flicking to the staff. "Get the dress off her. I'll let this slide. Don't? Your store's done tomorrow."

They panicked—phones out, calling fast.

Then Jella screamed, way too loud—"Zeke! You're finally here!"