“You’re staring,” he said, not looking at me.
“Maybe I like what I see.”
He turned, lips quirking. “Careful, Mia Moglie. You might make me believe you’re actually falling in love with me.”
“Too late.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them, and my cheeks flushed.
But I don’t take them back because they were true. In the last two weeks, my feelings have shifted—what began as practicality now feels real. At first, the arrangement felt cold and necessary: Lorenzo needed to secure his family’s legacy and avoid an arranged marriage, and I just needed to survive. But between the signatures, the promises, and that devastating intensity I still can’t fully understand, I found myself genuinely falling for him.
Hard.
Besides me, Lorenzo’s dark eyes searched mine, looking for something, and I don’t know what he finds, but whatever it is, it makes his expression soften in a way that cracks something open in my chest.
“Come,” he said, taking my hand. “There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
We slipped through the streets, leaving the crowds behind, winding deeper into Verona’s maze. The buildings pressed closer; the alleys twisted. I have no idea where we’re headed. But I followed. That’s the scary part. I trusted him. Even after that night on the boat, I trusted every word he said. I knew he meant it when he said he wouldn’t hurt me, nor would he let me go.
He stopped in front of an unassuming archway, ivy crawling up the stone, and turned to me with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I let my eyelids fall.
He took my hand and lead me through the archway. I heard my footsteps echo differently—a wider space, an open courtyard. The air smelled different here. Fresher. Sweeter.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “Open.”
I opened my eyes.
And almost instantly, my breath caught. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
The street opened up into a hidden courtyard, tucked away from the tourist trails and the noise of the city. It was lined with ancient stone walls, climbing with roses—hundreds of them, red and pink and white, their petals catching the golden light of the setting sun.
Flickering candles lined the path ahead, nestled in glass jars, casting warm shadows across the cobblestones. They lead to a small fountain in the center of the courtyard, where more roses float on the water’s surface, and a blanket is spread on the ground with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“What is this?” I whispered, trying to wrap my head around what was happening.
The whole scene felt like something out of a dream, a fantasy I never let myself have because I never believed I deserved it.
But Lorenzo didn’t answer. He just watched me, his eyes soft, his hands clasped in front of him.
“I love you, Zara.” His voice cracked on my name. “I didn’t think I knew what love was. I thought it was a weakness, a liability, something to be avoided. But you—Dio, you’ve undone me. In two weeks, you’ve made me a better man. You’ve given me something I didn’t know I was looking for.”
I was crying. I didn’t remember when I had started, but tears were streaming down my face, and I couldn't breathe, my heart was so full it felt like it might burst.
“Ti amo,” he said, and the Italian rolling off his tongue like honey. “I love you, Zara. I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fight with you, make up with you, have children withyou, and grow old with you. I want to be your husband—not on paper, but here.”
He pressed his free hand to his chest, over his heart.
“And here.” He reached out, touching my chest, right where my heart was hammering.
