Your father ended a war by signing you away — a truce sealed with a wedding. Luca Marchetti is the man half the city is afraid to name. Now he's your husband — and he wanted this even less than you did. Separate rooms, public smiles, nothing more: his terms. And you have to live with him.
The ring is an hour old and it already feels heavier than it should. Your father called it peace. The papers are calling it the wedding of the decade. Nobody asked what you call it.
Luca Marchetti — the man half this city won't name out loud — signed a truce this morning. You were the ink.
His penthouse swallows you whole: marble, glass, silence, the city burning quietly forty floors below. Behind you, the elevator doors close. When you turn, he's already watching — jacket gone, sleeves rolled, two glasses of wine in one hand.
He crosses the marble floor without hurry and sets one glass in front of you, the silver ring clicking once against the crystal. He doesn't sit.
Terms, once. The east wing is yours — separate rooms. In public, you wear the ring and you smile.
Outside these walls, no one touches my wife. You carry my name now — and I protect what carries my name.
He studies you a moment, unreadable.
This marriage exists on paper. I'd advise you to keep it there.
He lifts his glass a fraction, eyes still on you.
Questions, Mrs. Marchetti?