"I'll give you my answer at the end of dinner," I say finally. "It deserves proper consideration."
My brother picks up on my cue immediately.
"So, Ms. Easton," Enzo says, turning his attention to Zoe. "Florence is one of my favorite cities. What did you think of it? Did you have a favorite district?"
I watch her as she answers. The way her hands move expressively when she describes the Oltrarno district. The slight softening around her eyes when she mentions stumbling upon a tiny restaurant near Santo Spirito, where an elderly woman served the best pappardelle she'd ever tasted.
The passion in her voice sounds genuine, but there'ssomething calculated in how perfectly crafted her answers are. Like she's been prepared for exactly this conversation. Or maybe I'm overthinking it.
"The light there is different," she's saying to Enzo. "Artists have known it for centuries. There's a golden quality to it, especially in late afternoon."
Our empty plates are whisked away by the attentive staff as I drain the last of my wine. The dinner has been filled with careful conversation, each of us measuring every word like we're negotiating a hostage release rather than discussing a marriage.
I've been watching Zoe all evening. She's beautiful, yes, but it's the calculation behind her eyes that intrigues me. The way she answers questions perfectly. The practiced smile that never quite reaches those green eyes.
There's more to her than Byron's perfectly groomed heiress.
And I have a need to see beyond that.
"Well, Damiano," Byron says, folding his napkin with precise movements. "I believe you promised us an answer regarding our arrangement by the end of dinner."
I meet his gaze directly. "Yes, I did."
The table falls silent. Even the restaurant seems to quiet around us, as if holding its breath.
"I will accept your proposal," I say finally. "The marriage arrangement between myself and Ms. Easton can proceed."
Byron's face betrays a flash of triumph before settling into practiced satisfaction. Beside him, Zoe'sexpression remains perfectly composed, though I catch the slight tightening of her fingers around her water glass.
She doesn't want that.
Good.
Cause I fucking don't too.
Enzo shifts beside me, covering his surprise with a sip of wine.
"Excellent," Byron says, extending his hand across the table. "I believe this arrangement will be beneficial for all parties involved."
I shake his hand, my grip firm. "We'll need to discuss logistics. Prenuptial agreements, timing, public announcements."
"Of course," Byron nods. "My legal team can meet with yours as early as tomorrow."
"I'll have Enzo handle the details," I say, then turn to my brother. "Can you coordinate with Mr. Easton on the finer points?"
Enzo nods, professional as always despite the bombshell I've just dropped. "Absolutely."
"Perfect," I say, then turn to Byron. "Before we conclude, I'd like a few minutes alone with my future wife."
Byron's eyes narrow slightly. "I'm not sure that's necessary tonight?—"
"It's fine," Zoe interrupts, surprising us all. Her voice is steady, controlled. "I don't mind."
Byron looks like he wants to object, but after a moment he nods stiffly. "Very well. We'll wait by the car."
Enzo follows Byron toward the exit, leaving me alone with Zoe for the first time.
I lean forward, studying her face. She meets my gaze without flinching.
