“Call it whatever you want.” His voice didn’t change. “I only need your answer.”
My hands trembled at my sides.
Something inside me went quiet—like a door closing.
“Fine,” I said, the word tasting like blood. “I accept.”
Enrico’s expression didn’t shift. Only his eyes sharpened, satisfied.
“But it’s a façade,” I added, forcing steel into my voice through pure hatred. “No physical contact. No emotional contact. Nothing beyond appearances.”
He nodded once, like he was finalizing a contract.
“Agreed.” His mouth curved into a cold, minimal smile. “And I expect you to perform your role convincingly, Valentina. We’ll need to look believable.”
Then he turned and left without looking back.
And I stood in the center of my own home feeling like I’d just signed away pieces of myself—again—while the man who had already shattered me once walked away with another victory tucked neatly into his pocket.
I barely had time to breathe before my life accelerated into something unreal.
Less than two hours later, strangers were inside my house.
They brought garment bags, paperwork, equipment I didn’t fully understand. People moved through my rooms like theybelonged there, making decisions, touching things, rearranging my reality without asking permission.
I was too stunned to fight.
André arrived shortly after, directing everything with crisp efficiency. No warmth. No apologies. I wasn’t a person to them.
I was a necessary part.
“This has to happen quickly, Valentina,” André said, his tone controlled, eyes calculating in a way that made it obvious it ran in the family. “Tomorrow is ideal. Small ceremony. Limited guests. Controlled setting.”
“Tomorrow?” The word came out broken. “You can’t be serious.”
André didn’t blink.
“We can’t afford time,” he said simply. “Any delay gives the story room to mutate. We need a clean visual—fast.”
I stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“A small ceremony,” I repeated, forcing my brain to hold onto something. “How small?”
André’s mouth tightened into something that resembled a smile.
“Just enough to create the right image.” He shrugged, almost casual. “The narrative will be that you were keeping things private out of respect for your daughter and to avoid fueling speculation.”
“And the press will just… find out?” I asked, nausea rising.
He didn’t bother denying it.
“Correct. It has to look careful—while still looking romantic.” His gaze flicked away for a second, then back. “Enrico is prepared.”
The mention of his name made my stomach twist.
Of course he was prepared.
Enrico Ferrara was built for performance.
