Twisted Secret

Chapter One

Giulia

The Ciresa house smells like roses tonight.

There are white ones everywhere, scattered through the entryway and hall leading to the dining room in crystal vases. I could smell them earlier, mingling with the scent of expensive wine being decanted in the kitchen, and the rich smell of the osso buco our chef has been preparing since this morning. I swear I can even smell it up here, in my bedroom, while I get ready for the party that’s being held in my honor tonight. 

Tonight, I'm being prepared to be sold.

It’s never been said in those words, of course. My father would never be so crude. But that's what this dinner party is, stripped of all the elegant pretense and expensive trappings. Tonight’s event is going to be full of eligible men of varying ages, all suitors for me, coming to our home to look at me and evaluate me, then decide if I'm worth the investment. And I'm expected to smile and be gracious and show them exactly why Dante Ciresa’s daughter would make an excellent addition to their lives.

I smooth down the fabric of my dress for the third time in as many minutes, trying to smooth away my nerves at the same time. I picked the dress out myself, at least—a rich emerald green silk gown that slides over my curves like water and is elegant without being flashy. The neckline is a modest V, the straps just wide enough to show off my toned shoulders and sharp collarbones, and I’ve kept my jewelry simple, too. I picked out a pair of emerald and yellow gold drop earrings and a thin gold chain to go around my neck, which right now, as I clasp it, feels more like a potential collar.

Carefully, I pin back the front waves of my long, black hair, and take one more look at my reflection. A muted smoky eye, a nude lip, and nude Louboutin heels to finish it all off. I look exactly like what I am—an Italian-American heiress, the prize of the Ciresa family, polished until every bit of me gives off a smooth, expensive sheen. 

The girl in the mirror looks calm and composed, accepting of her fate. But inwardly, it feels like a lie. I don’t feel calm at all. And a part of me wonders if I can ever fully accept that this is just… what my life will be now. 

I belonged to my father, and soon I’ll belong to some other man. I’ve never really belonged to myself. Not even when I was at boarding school, hundreds of miles away. If I’d ever stepped out of line, someone would have found out. I’ve never been free. 

A knock on my door makes me turn away from my reflection. "Giulia?" My father's voice carries through the heavy wood. "I need to speak with you before our guests arrive."

My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "Of course, Papa. I'll be right there."

I take one last look at myself, checking that everything is in place, that there's nothing out of order that might disappoint him. Then I open the door and follow my father down the hallway toward his office.

The walk feels longer than it should. Our house is massive, a testament to the Ciresa family's power and wealth, but I've lived here my entire life and I know every inch of it. I know which floorboards creak, which paintings hide something, which rooms are used for business that I'm not supposed to know about. I know the history soaked into its walls and the blood that's been spilled to maintain it, generation after generation.

My father's office is downstairs, at the end of a long hall. It smells like leather and cigars, and I feel a hint of familiar nostalgia at the scent. It smells like him, and even if my father has never been a warm man, he’s still the only one I have. Deep down, I’ve always wanted to please him, and I missed the familiarity of home while I was away… almost as much as I appreciated the chance to get even a fraction of space from it. 

He holds the door open for me, and I step inside, my heels clicking against the gleaming hardwood. The room is exactly as it always was—dark wood furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive desk that dominates the space. Behind the desk hangs a painting of my grandfather, his eyes seeming to follow me as I move to stand in front of my father's chair.

Dante Ciresa doesn't sit immediately. He closes the door, and the soft click of the latch makes me flinch slightly, a real sign that my nerves are on edge. Then he moves to the bar cart in the corner and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. He doesn't offer me any. I'm nineteen, but more than that, I'm his daughter, and daughters don't drink whiskey in their father's office before dinner parties where they're being presented to potential husbands.

"Sit," he says, and I do, perching on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing his desk.

He takes his time, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, and I wait. I've learned patience in this family. I've learned to be still, to be quiet, to wait for the men to speak first. It's one of many lessons that have been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what it means to be a Ciresa.

Finally, he sits, setting his glass down with a soft thunk. His eyes meet mine, and I see the calculation there, the assessment. He's looking at me the same way he looks at business deals, weighing costs and benefits, risks and rewards. "You understand what tonight is about," he says. It's not a question.

I nod, forcing myself not to chew on my lip and ruin my lipstick. "Yes, Papa."

"Good." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Then you understand how important it is that you make a good impression. That you show these men exactly why an alliance with our family would be beneficial."

I nod, keeping my face neutral and my hands folded neatly in my lap. The perfect picture of obedience.

"Your brother's situation with Savannah has caused some... complications," he continues, and I hear the edge in his voice when he says her name. Savannah is Romeo's wife, the woman he chose for himself instead of accepting whatever future our father might have planned for him. The woman who caused chaos and nearly got Romeo killed, because her family had long feuded with ours, and because she was already engaged. It had been a situation with so many complications that my head still aches when I think about it… but I’ve never thought it was less than worth it, because of how happy my brother is now. 

My father, as accepting as he finally was, does not feel the same way. He looks at me evenly as he continues, his voice hard. "Some of the other families are questioning whether I have control over my own household. Whether the Ciresa name still commands the respect it once did."

The words land hard, pelting against me like stones, but I don't let my expression change.

"It's your job to fix that," he says, and now his voice is harder, colder. "You will marry well, Giulia. You will choose one of these men, or I will choose for you, and you will do it with grace and gratitude. You will show the other families that the Ciresas are still strong, still united, still worthy of their respect and fear. Do you understand?"

I give him a small nod. "Yes, Papa."

"This isn't a request." He picks up his glass again and takes a slow sip. "This is your duty. This is what you were raised for. Your education, everything we've given you—it was all for this moment, to make a match that strengthens our family and that secures our position. Romeo's chaos ends with you. You will be the daughter who does what's expected of her."

The weight of it, the finality in his voice, presses down on me, suffocating and absolute. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, faced with his absolute orders, I want to scream. I want to tell him that I'm not a chess piece to be moved around his board, that I'm a person with my own wants and needs and desires. I want to ask him if he's ever considered what I might want, if it's ever occurred to him that I might have dreams that don't involve being sold off to the highest bidder. The ferocity with which my mind reacts to the coldness in his voice startles me, and I have to grip the edge of the chair not to visibly flinch. It’s as if, suddenly, this has all become very real, and my body is reacting viscerally to that reality. 

I take a slow breath, and I don’t say anything about what just ran through my head. Instead, I meet his eyes. "I understand, Papa. I won't disappoint you."

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I know you won't, piccola. You've always been my good girl. My obedient daughter." He stands, signaling that the conversation is over. "The guests will be arriving soon. Make sure you're downstairs to greet them."

"Yes, Papa." I stand and move toward the door, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body, like I'm floating above myself watching this happen to someone else. My hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.

"Giulia."

I turn back.

“I see you chose your mother’s earrings. A good choice. She was a good wife. She was faithful to the end, and she gave me an heir. Keep her in your mind tonight.”

And then she died before she could ever become a problem. The thought, like the ones that just came before, startles me. It’s not like me to be so reactive, to even think back, much less talk back. I nod, forcing a small smile to my lips.

"Of course, Papa."

I leave his office and close the door behind me. My hands are trembling slightly, and I press them against my stomach, trying to calm the sudden nausea rising in my throat.

This is my life. This has always been my life. I've known since I was a little girl that I would be married off for the family's benefit, that my value lay in what alliance I could bring, what connections I could forge. I've been groomed for this, polished and perfected like a diamond meant to be sold. And I've accepted it, because what choice did I have?

But acceptance and wanting are two very different things. And that difference is suddenly hitting me far too hard. 

I reach up and touch one of the earrings. My mother wore these on her wedding day. I wonder if she felt like this too, like she was being led to slaughter in a beautiful dress. I wonder if she ever regretted it.

Down the hall, I can hear the sounds of final preparations—the clink of crystal, the murmur of staff moving through rooms, and the low rumble of male voices. Romeo must be here already, and probably Luca too. My brother's right hand, his best friend, the man who's been a fixture in our house for as long as I can remember.

The man I've been in love with since I was sixteen years old.

I push that thought away as soon as it surfaces, burying it deep where it can't hurt me. Luca is off-limits in every possible way. He's Romeo's best friend, he works for my family, and even if none of that mattered, he's made it abundantly clear since I came back from boarding school that he sees me as nothing more than his best friend's little sister. The easy affection he used to show me is gone, replaced by professional distance and careful politeness.

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

I take a deep breath and start to walk down the hall to the entryway of the mansion. 

The first floor has been transformed, even more polished and decorative than usual—not unlike me. Every surface gleams, every flower is perfectly arranged, every detail is exactly as it should be. Our chef has outdone himself with the menu, and the dining room table will be set with our finest china and crystal. It's a display of wealth and power, subtle but unmistakable. This is what you could have, it says. This is what an alliance with the Ciresas means.

I find Romeo in the living room, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's dressed in a tailored dark suit that probably cost more than most people make in a month, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his expression unreadable. When he sees me, something flickers across his face—a hint of guilt mingled with sympathy. 

"Giulia," he says, and his voice is gentler than usual. "You look beautiful."

I wince. My brother loves me, in his way, but he’s also a diagnosed sociopath. I’m the only person he ever felt an emotion for, before he met Savannah. Savannah’s ability to make him feel romantic love is the reason he became so obsessed with her and fought so hard for her. His affection for me is something I’ve never taken for granted, but how gentle and careful he’s being now is a testament to what’s being set in motion tonight. 

"Thank you." I move to stand beside him, looking out at the driveway where cars will soon be arriving. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Dante wants me here. Show of family unity." He takes a sip of his drink, and I can feel him watching me. "Are you okay?"

The question surprises me even more. Romeo isn't usually one for emotional check-ins. "I'm fine."

"You don't have to do this, you know. Not if you don't want to."

I almost laugh at that. I can see he means it, but we both know it's not true. "Yes, I do. Papa made that very clear. You’re the heir, Romeo, you can get away with a lot that I can’t. You know that this isn’t optional."

Romeo's jaw tightens. "He's still angry about Savannah. He's taking it out on you."

"He's doing what he thinks is best for the family." The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I say them anyway. "And he's right. Someone needs to stabilize things after… everything that happened."

"That's not your responsibility."

"Isn't it?" I meet his eyes, and I see my own frustration reflected back at me. "I'm a Ciresa, Romeo. This is what we do. This is what's expected of us. I don’t begrudge you getting to do things differently, but it’s just not going to be the same for me. It never was."

He looks like he wants to argue, but before he can, I hear footsteps behind us. I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.

Luca.

He's walking into the room, and the sight of him makes everything else fade into the background. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and muscular build. His short dark hair is styled back from his face, showing off his sharp jawline and those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. The gold chain around his neck catches the light, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his collar.

He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and looking at him hurts.

"The first car just pulled up," he says to Romeo, his voice low and professional. Then his eyes flick to me, just for a second. "Giulia."

"Luca." I keep my voice steady, neutral, giving nothing away. I swear I hear it tremble the slightest bit, but if anyone else does, no one gives it away. 

There's a moment where we just look at each other, and I wonder if he can see it—the wanting, the longing, the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, things could be different. But then he looks away, his expression carefully blank, and I know the answer.

He doesn't see me. Not the way I want him to.

The distance between us feels like an ocean, and I'm drowning in it. This is how it's been since I came home—polite exchanges, nothing like the easy friendship we used to have. When I was younger, before boarding school, Luca would ruffle my hair and tease me. He'd answer my endless questions about his work with Romeo, would sometimes let me tag along when they weren't doing anything dangerous. He treated me like a little sister, and I was content with that because I was too young to want anything more.

But then I turned sixteen, and everything changed.

I remember the exact moment I realized I was in love with him. It was summer, and he and Romeo were in the gym, going through combat moves together. I was supposed to be studying, but I'd snuck out to watch them. Luca had his shirt off, his skin gleaming with sweat, and I’d felt something looking at him that I never had before. He was beautiful and dangerous and completely unaware that I was watching him with my heart in my throat.

I know now that first moment wasn’t love, of course—it was lust, pure and simple. But I spent the whole summer after that day memorizing every detail of his face, cataloging every smile, every laugh, every moment of kindness. And I fell so completely in love with him that I knew I'd never recover. 

For the next three years, I tried to forget him and convince myself it was just a crush, just adolescent infatuation that would fade with time and distance. For the remaining two years of boarding school, I tried not to think about him at all when I wasn’t home. 

But it didn't fade.

If anything, it got worse. I spent my last year at boarding school lying in my narrow bed at night, my hand between my legs, imagining it was Luca touching me. I would picture his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his body pressing me into the mattress. I imagined what his voice would sound like when he said my name in the dark, what his weight would feel like on top of me, what it would be like to finally, finally have him the way I wanted him. 

I would come thinking about him, biting my pillow to muffle my moans, and then I would lie there in the dark feeling guilty and ashamed and desperately, achingly lonely. Because I knew it would never happen. I knew that Luca saw me as nothing more than Romeo's little sister, someone to be protected and kept at a distance. And even if he did want me—which he clearly didn’t and still doesn’t—it would never be allowed. Romeo would kill him. My father would kill him. The entire family would see it as a betrayal.

So I buried those feelings as deep as I could and told myself they would fade when I came home and saw him again. That reality would kill the fantasy.

But reality has only made it worse. Now I see him almost every day, and every interaction is a fresh wound. Every polite greeting, every moment he looks at me with those blank, professional eyes—it's killing me. And worse are the moments when I feel a sliver of connection with him, like when I helped protect Savannah from her insane ex-fiancé not all that long ago. Luca was there, bringing men to back us up, and I saw the appreciation in his eyes when he realized I’d stood my ground, that I was braver and stronger than he’d probably ever realized before.

Those moments don’t happen often. And I don’t think they’re what I wish they were. 

"I should go greet our guests," I say quickly, and I don't wait for a response before I walk away.

The first to arrive is Marco Ferri. He looks to be in his mid-forties, average height, thinning hair, with a face that's more distinguished than handsome. But he's wealthy, well-connected, and his family controls significant territory in the northern part of the state. He greets my father with the easy familiarity of old business associates, shakes Romeo's hand, and then turns to me.

"Signorina Ciresa," he says, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your father has told me so much about you."

His hand is soft, and his lips are dry against my skin. I smile and say all the right things, playing the part of the gracious hostess, but inside I'm screaming. This man is old enough to be my father. The thought of him touching me, of sharing a bed with him, makes my skin crawl. Just him holding my hand makes me want to flinch, but I force myself into complete stillness, and I keep smiling.

"The pleasure is mine, Signor Ferri. Welcome to our home."

"Please, call me Marco." His eyes sweep over me assessingly, and I feel like livestock being evaluated at market. "Your father didn't exaggerate. You're even more beautiful than he described."

"You're too kind."

"Not at all. Beauty like yours is rare, especially combined with such grace and breeding." He's still holding my hand, his thumb brushing against my knuckles in a way that makes my stomach turn. "I look forward to getting to know you better this evening."

I extract my hand as politely as I can and excuse myself to greet the next arrival. My skin feels contaminated where he touched me, and I have to resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.

The next few men are all much older than I am, just like Marco, until Enzo Gallari arrives. He's younger—maybe thirty—and handsome in a way that's almost too perfect. He has dark hair and eyes, and a smile that’s charming and only enhances his features, but has absolutely no actual warmth. He's wearing an expensive suit and even more expensive cologne, and when he takes my hand, he holds it just a little too long.

"Giulia.” I notice he doesn't call me Signorina; he doesn't show the proper respect. "I've been looking forward to this evening."

There's something in his eyes that makes my stomach turn. It’s predatory and possessive, like he's already decided I belong to him. His hand is warm and slightly damp, and when he finally releases mine, I have to resist the urge to wipe it on my dress.

"Thank you for coming, Signor Gallari."

"Enzo, please. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, I think. No need for formality." His smile widens, and it makes me want to step back. "I have to say, the pictures your father showed me didn't do you justice. You're exquisite."

The way he says it makes me feel naked, exposed—like he's already imagining what I look like without my clothes on, what I would sound like underneath him. I force myself to smile and thank him, to play the part I'm supposed to play. But inside, I'm recoiling. I have that feeling, again, like I want to scream.

Alessandro Ferrucci is the last to arrive, and he's different from the other two. He's closer to my age, possibly mid to late twenties, and handsome in a more understated way. He has dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and his smile is the most genuine of the lot, as far as I can tell. When he greets me, he's respectful—almost shy. I don’t hate him as much as I do the others on sight. 

"It's an honor to meet you, Signorina Ciresa," he says, and his voice seems more genuine than the others. "Thank you for having me in your home."

Out of all of them, he's the one I should prefer. He's kind, he's age-appropriate, and he doesn't make my skin crawl. But when I look at him, I feel nothing. No spark, no attraction, no interest whatsoever.

I try not to think about why that is, but deep down, I know. It’s because he's not Luca.

"The honor is mine, Signor Ferrucci. Please, come in."

"Alessandro, please." His smile is warm, genuine, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes at how every single man has said the exact same thing. Please call me by my first name, we’re going to get to know each other so well. "I hope we'll have a chance to talk this evening. Your father mentioned you had a particular interest in classic literature. I hope we can discuss it more."

At least he's making an effort to see me as a person, not just a prize to be won. I should be grateful for that. I should appreciate his kindness. But all I can think is that he's not the man I want.

We move into the dining room, and I find myself seated between Alessandro and Enzo, with Marco across from me. My father is at the head of the table, Romeo to his left, and Luca is sitting next to Romeo. Normally, I would be to my father’s right, but tonight I’ve been put in the middle of the guests—the better for them to engage me in conversation, I think. Further away from Luca, which is definitely not by design—no one knows how I feel about him, not even Luca—but it feels purposeful all the same. 

I force myself not to think about how I’d so much rather be sitting across from him. 

The meal begins, and I play my part perfectly. I smile at the right moments, laugh at the right jokes, and ask the right questions. I'm the perfect daughter, the perfect potential wife, giving each of these men exactly what they want to see. Marco talks about his business ventures, his properties, and his connections. "I have holdings in three states now," he says, cutting into his steak with precise movements. "Real estate, mostly, but I've been diversifying into shipping. The profit margins are excellent, and with the right connections—which your family has, of course—the potential for growth is substantial." 

He's clearly trying to impress me with his wealth and power, and I nod along, making appropriate sounds of interest. "That sounds very impressive, Signor Ferri."

"Marco, please, like I said before." He smiles at me, and there's something paternal in it that makes my skin crawl. "I think you and I could have a very comfortable life together, Giulia. I have a house in the city, another in the Hamptons, and I'm considering purchasing a villa in Tuscany. You'd want for nothing. I’ve long wanted a wife to heap luxury on. I do love spoiling a beautiful woman. You could have anything you wanted."

Except love, or passion. Except for any say in my own life. Once again, the thoughts startle me. I’ve been resigned up until now. Why am I suddenly bucking against this so hard? Is it just because it’s real, now? Because it’s so clear that I’ve never had a choice? Or has seeing Romeo with Savannah over the past months subconsciously made me want things I never did before, and now it’s finally coming to the surface? 

"That's very generous," I say, because what else can I say?

Enzo is more aggressive in his approach. He leans in close when he talks to me, his hand occasionally brushing against my arm or my shoulder. "You know, Giulia," he says, his voice low and intimate, "I think you and I would be very good together. You're beautiful, intelligent, well-bred—everything a man could want in a wife."

His hand lands on my knee under the table, and I have to physically stop myself from flinching away. "You're very kind, Signor Gallari."

"Enzo." His fingers squeeze slightly, possessively. "And I'm not being kind. I'm being honest. I've been looking for a wife for some time now, someone who could stand beside me as I expand my family's operations. Someone who understands our world, who knows how to navigate it. Someone like you. The fact that you are so exquisitely beautiful makes me all the more excited to make this a reality."

There's an assumption in his words that makes my teeth clench. He's already decided this is happening, that I'm going to choose him, and my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. His hand is still on my knee, his thumb making small circles that make me want to stab him with my fork.

"I appreciate your interest," I say carefully, shifting slightly so his hand falls away. "But I think it's important to take time to get to know each other properly before making any decisions."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Though I think you'll find we're very compatible. In all ways."

The implication in his tone makes me want to throw my wine in his face.

Alessandro is different. He asks me questions about myself—what I studied at boarding school, what I like to read, what I think about current events. He actually listens to my answers, and when he talks about his own interests, there's a genuine enthusiasm there. "I've always been fascinated by literature of the past," he says, leaning forward slightly. "My mother was a writer, actually. Not professionally, but she was quite talented. She used to read to me often when I was young, teach me about different eras of literature and the men and women who shaped them. When your father mentioned you had a particular interest, I was excited to meet someone who shares that interest."

It's the first genuine connection I've felt all evening, and I find myself engaging more than I probably should. "Who was her favorite author?”

“Dostoevsky,” he says with a slight grimace. “Dark, I know. But she also loved Wilde, Stoker, and Brontë.”

“I do love Dorian Gray. And I know it’s almost cliché, but Pride and Prejudice, of course,” I admit.

We end up talking about books for several minutes, and it's almost pleasant. Almost normal, like we're two people having a conversation instead of a man who might all but purchase me from my father and a woman who has no real say in who she’s going to marry. But then his hand reaches over to touch my arm—just a brief, gentle touch that probably looks reassuring to everyone else—and I see something in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable.

There’s a possessiveness there, a certainty that feels like he's already decided I'm his.

"I'd love to take you to a gallery opening next week," he says. "There's a new exhibition at the Met that I think you'd enjoy. We could make an evening of it—dinner, the gallery, maybe a walk through Central Park afterward. With proper security, of course."

He's asking me on a date, and everyone at the table is watching to see how I'll respond.

"That sounds lovely," I hear myself say, because what else can I say? I could tell him no, I suppose, but out of everyone I’ve met so far, he’s the best option. I’d rather deal with a date with him than anyone else here.

His smile widens, and I see my father nod approvingly from the head of the table. I've done well. I've made the right choice.

I feel like I'm suffocating.

Alessandro takes his attention away from me long enough to address my father, asking him questions about business, about how the Ciresa holdings are doing. It seems carefully couched in hints that perhaps the Ciresas are struggling since the chaos of the Beauregard matter, and I see Romeo tense out of the corner of my eye. But my father is quick to tell Alessandro how well we’re doing, about expansions and other business matters that I quickly tune out. It’s not as if I’ve ever been included in them, anyway.

Throughout the meal, I'm constantly aware of Luca's presence. Every time I glance toward him, his expression is carefully neutral. But sometimes I catch him looking at me, and there's something in his eyes that I can't quite read, a look of irritation, I think. It's gone before I can analyze it, replaced by that careful blankness, but it was there.

Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

The conversation continues, flowing around me as if I’m an object, and everyone else is a river in constant motion. Marco tells a long story about a business deal that I'm sure is meant to be impressive, but just makes me want to fall asleep. Enzo makes increasingly inappropriate comments that he seems to think are charming, his hand finding excuses to touch me—my arm, my shoulder, once even brushing against my hair. Alessandro continues to be perfectly pleasant and perfectly attentive, asking me questions about my time at boarding school, my interests, my thoughts on various topics.

And through it all, I'm dying inside. None of these men makes me feel anything. There’s no attraction, no chemistry, no spark of interest. They're strangers evaluating me like a piece of property, and I'm expected to choose one of them to spend the rest of my life with. I'm expected to let one of them touch me, kiss me, take me to bed. I'm expected to bear his children and run his household and smile through it all like I'm grateful for the opportunity.

And the man I actually want is sitting a few chairs down, looking at me like I'm nothing more than his best friend's little sister.

Midway through the main course, I notice Luca shift slightly, his jaw tight. He's looking at Enzo, who has just reached over to touch my arm again, his fingers lingering on my skin. There's something dark in Luca's expression, something violent, but it's gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. 

Then he pushes his chair back abruptly, gets up, and walks out of the room.

My eyes widen with shock, and my heart stutters in my chest. His proximity to Romeo is the only reason he could get away with something like that—my father would kill a lesser man for such rudeness. But why would he do that? All I can think is that my presence has become utterly unbearable to him. This whole thing probably seems like absolute foolishness to him, and seeing me being fawned over probably disgusts him.

Not only does he not want me, he doesn't even want to be near me.

"Giulia?" Alessandro's voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you alright? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Just a bit warm. It's been a long evening."

"Would you like to step outside for some air? The garden is beautiful at night."

It's a test, I realize. He's asking if I'm interested enough to spend time alone with him, if I'm willing to give him a chance. 

"That sounds lovely," I hear myself say, desperate not to spend time with Alessandro, but to get away from the table as soon as possible, and the glaringly empty chair where Luca was.

His smile widens, and I see my father nod approvingly. I've made the right choice. Again.

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. Dessert is served—a delicate panna cotta that I push around my plate without really eating. Coffee is offered, and the conversation continues, but I'm barely present. Finally, mercifully, the meal ends. Alessandro stands and offers me his arm. "Shall we take that walk?"

I take his arm and let him lead me out into the garden. The cool evening air feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the dining room, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.

The garden is beautiful, lit by strategically placed lights that make the flowers glow and cast romantic shadows across the paths. It's the perfect setting for a courtship. 

Alessandro leads me down the winding path. "This is beautiful," he says, gesturing to the roses that line the path. "Your family has excellent taste."

"Thank you. My mother designed most of it before she passed."

"I'm sorry for your loss." His voice is gentle and sincere. I should appreciate it, but I just nod, feeling hollow and numb. I’ve been given so much, and I suppose I should be appreciative that this is all that’s being asked of me—to let myself be courted by a handsome man. But all I want is for the night to be over. 

We walk in silence for a moment, and I'm grateful for it. The quiet feels like a reprieve after the constant performance of dinner. But then Alessandro speaks again.

"I want you to know, Giulia, that I'm not trying to rush you into anything. I know this is all very formal and probably uncomfortable. But I'd like to get to know you, if you're willing. As a person, not just as a potential alliance. Your father’s business interests are very tempting, but you are even more so. It’s you that I’m most interested in."

It seems like he means it. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. He's genuinely trying to be kind, to make this easier for me.

And I feel nothing.

"That's very thoughtful of you," I say, because it is. Because he deserves credit for trying to be decent in a world that doesn't require it, if he’s being honest. 

"I know I'm not the only one your father is considering," he continues. "And I know you probably have your own preferences. But I hope you'll give me a chance. I think we could be good together."

He stops walking and turns to face me, and there's something earnest in his expression that makes me feel guilty for not being able to return his interest. "I'm not like Marco or Enzo," he says. "I don't just see you as a business transaction or a prize to be won. I see you as a person, Giulia. A beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves to be treated with respect and kindness."

It's exactly what I should want to hear. It's everything a woman in my position could hope for—a husband who will treat her well, who sees her as more than just a means to an end. But it's not enough. Because respect and kindness are wonderful, but they aren't love. They aren't passion. They aren't the desperate, consuming need I feel when I look at Luca.

"I appreciate that, Alessandro. Truly." I try to put warmth into my voice, to give him something even if it's not what he wants. "You've been very kind tonight."

"I'd like to see you again. Outside of these formal dinners, if you're willing. Maybe that gallery opening I mentioned? Or we could just have coffee, talk more. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He's asking for permission. Asking if I'm interested. And the kind thing to do, the right thing to do, would be to tell him the truth—that I'm not interested, that I'll never be interested, that he's wasting his time.

But I can't do that. Because if I eliminate Alessandro, I'm left with Marco or Enzo, or one of the others, and that's not an option.

So instead, I smile and say, "I'd like that."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but he doesn't seem to notice. He smiles back, relieved, and we continue our walk. He talks about his family, his work, his plans for the future, asking me more questions about our family’s businesses, which I answer as much as I can… which is to say, not much at all. He's intelligent and articulate, and under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the conversation.

But all I can think about is Luca, and the distance between us that I can't seem to bridge, no matter how hard I try.

When we finally return to the house, the other guests are preparing to leave. I say my goodbyes, accepting Marco's kiss on my hand and dodging Enzo's attempt to kiss my cheek. Alessandro is the last to leave, and he takes my hand gently.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Giulia. I hope we can do this again soon."

"I'd like that."

Another lie. I'm getting good at them.

After they're gone, my father calls me into his study. Romeo is there, but Luca is nowhere to be seen. The absence feels like a wound.

"You did well tonight, piccola," my father says, and there's approval in his voice. "Alessandro seems quite taken with you. I think he'll make an excellent match. Marco and Enzo are both possibilities as well. Marco is settled and has substantial wealth of his own, and Enzo is poised to become a well-connected heir. I’d like you to spend more time with all of them. More dinners and such will be arranged, of course."

I force myself to smile and nod. "Thank you, Papa. Of course."

"I'm pleased with how you handled yourself tonight," my father continues. "You were gracious, charming, exactly what a Ciresa daughter should be. You've made me proud."

The words should make me happy. They should fill me with warmth and satisfaction. But instead, they just make me feel empty.

"Thank you, Papa," I say, because that's what's expected.

"You're dismissed. Get some rest. We have a busy week ahead."

I leave the study and make my way upstairs, my legs feeling like lead. My room feels like a cage when I close the door behind me, and I lean against it, trying to catch my breath.

This is my life. This is my future. I'm going to marry one of these men, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life pretending to be happy about it. I'm going to let him touch me, let him into my bed, let him use my body to produce heirs for his family.

And I'm never going to know what it's like to be with someone I actually want.The Ciresa house smells like roses tonight.

There are white ones everywhere, scattered through the entryway and hall leading to the dining room in crystal vases. I could smell them earlier, mingling with the scent of expensive wine being decanted in the kitchen, and the rich smell of the osso buco our chef has been preparing since this morning. I swear I can even smell it up here, in my bedroom, while I get ready for the party that’s being held in my honor tonight. 

Tonight, I'm being prepared to be sold.

It’s never been said in those words, of course. My father would never be so crude. But that's what this dinner party is, stripped of all the elegant pretense and expensive trappings. Tonight’s event is going to be full of eligible men of varying ages, all suitors for me, coming to our home to look at me and evaluate me, then decide if I'm worth the investment. And I'm expected to smile and be gracious and show them exactly why Dante Ciresa’s daughter would make an excellent addition to their lives.

I smooth down the fabric of my dress for the third time in as many minutes, trying to smooth away my nerves at the same time. I picked the dress out myself, at least—a rich emerald green silk gown that slides over my curves like water and is elegant without being flashy. The neckline is a modest V, the straps just wide enough to show off my toned shoulders and sharp collarbones, and I’ve kept my jewelry simple, too. I picked out a pair of emerald and yellow gold drop earrings and a thin gold chain to go around my neck, which right now, as I clasp it, feels more like a potential collar.

Carefully, I pin back the front waves of my long, black hair, and take one more look at my reflection. A muted smoky eye, a nude lip, and nude Louboutin heels to finish it all off. I look exactly like what I am—an Italian-American heiress, the prize of the Ciresa family, polished until every bit of me gives off a smooth, expensive sheen. 

The girl in the mirror looks calm and composed, accepting of her fate. But inwardly, it feels like a lie. I don’t feel calm at all. And a part of me wonders if I can ever fully accept that this is just… what my life will be now. 

I belonged to my father, and soon I’ll belong to some other man. I’ve never really belonged to myself. Not even when I was at boarding school, hundreds of miles away. If I’d ever stepped out of line, someone would have found out. I’ve never been free. 

A knock on my door makes me turn away from my reflection. "Giulia?" My father's voice carries through the heavy wood. "I need to speak with you before our guests arrive."

My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "Of course, Papa. I'll be right there."

I take one last look at myself, checking that everything is in place, that there's nothing out of order that might disappoint him. Then I open the door and follow my father down the hallway toward his office.

The walk feels longer than it should. Our house is massive, a testament to the Ciresa family's power and wealth, but I've lived here my entire life and I know every inch of it. I know which floorboards creak, which paintings hide something, which rooms are used for business that I'm not supposed to know about. I know the history soaked into its walls and the blood that's been spilled to maintain it, generation after generation.

My father's office is downstairs, at the end of a long hall. It smells like leather and cigars, and I feel a hint of familiar nostalgia at the scent. It smells like him, and even if my father has never been a warm man, he’s still the only one I have. Deep down, I’ve always wanted to please him, and I missed the familiarity of home while I was away… almost as much as I appreciated the chance to get even a fraction of space from it. 

He holds the door open for me, and I step inside, my heels clicking against the gleaming hardwood. The room is exactly as it always was—dark wood furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive desk that dominates the space. Behind the desk hangs a painting of my grandfather, his eyes seeming to follow me as I move to stand in front of my father's chair.

Dante Ciresa doesn't sit immediately. He closes the door, and the soft click of the latch makes me flinch slightly, a real sign that my nerves are on edge. Then he moves to the bar cart in the corner and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. He doesn't offer me any. I'm nineteen, but more than that, I'm his daughter, and daughters don't drink whiskey in their father's office before dinner parties where they're being presented to potential husbands.

"Sit," he says, and I do, perching on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing his desk.

He takes his time, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, and I wait. I've learned patience in this family. I've learned to be still, to be quiet, to wait for the men to speak first. It's one of many lessons that have been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what it means to be a Ciresa.

Finally, he sits, setting his glass down with a soft thunk. His eyes meet mine, and I see the calculation there, the assessment. He's looking at me the same way he looks at business deals, weighing costs and benefits, risks and rewards. "You understand what tonight is about," he says. It's not a question.

I nod, forcing myself not to chew on my lip and ruin my lipstick. "Yes, Papa."

"Good." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Then you understand how important it is that you make a good impression. That you show these men exactly why an alliance with our family would be beneficial."

I nod, keeping my face neutral and my hands folded neatly in my lap. The perfect picture of obedience.

"Your brother's situation with Savannah has caused some... complications," he continues, and I hear the edge in his voice when he says her name. Savannah is Romeo's wife, the woman he chose for himself instead of accepting whatever future our father might have planned for him. The woman who caused chaos and nearly got Romeo killed, because her family had long feuded with ours, and because she was already engaged. It had been a situation with so many complications that my head still aches when I think about it… but I’ve never thought it was less than worth it, because of how happy my brother is now. 

My father, as accepting as he finally was, does not feel the same way. He looks at me evenly as he continues, his voice hard. "Some of the other families are questioning whether I have control over my own household. Whether the Ciresa name still commands the respect it once did."

The words land hard, pelting against me like stones, but I don't let my expression change.

"It's your job to fix that," he says, and now his voice is harder, colder. "You will marry well, Giulia. You will choose one of these men, or I will choose for you, and you will do it with grace and gratitude. You will show the other families that the Ciresas are still strong, still united, still worthy of their respect and fear. Do you understand?"

I give him a small nod. "Yes, Papa."

"This isn't a request." He picks up his glass again and takes a slow sip. "This is your duty. This is what you were raised for. Your education, everything we've given you—it was all for this moment, to make a match that strengthens our family and that secures our position. Romeo's chaos ends with you. You will be the daughter who does what's expected of her."

The weight of it, the finality in his voice, presses down on me, suffocating and absolute. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, faced with his absolute orders, I want to scream. I want to tell him that I'm not a chess piece to be moved around his board, that I'm a person with my own wants and needs and desires. I want to ask him if he's ever considered what I might want, if it's ever occurred to him that I might have dreams that don't involve being sold off to the highest bidder. The ferocity with which my mind reacts to the coldness in his voice startles me, and I have to grip the edge of the chair not to visibly flinch. It’s as if, suddenly, this has all become very real, and my body is reacting viscerally to that reality. 

I take a slow breath, and I don’t say anything about what just ran through my head. Instead, I meet his eyes. "I understand, Papa. I won't disappoint you."

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I know you won't, piccola. You've always been my good girl. My obedient daughter." He stands, signaling that the conversation is over. "The guests will be arriving soon. Make sure you're downstairs to greet them."

"Yes, Papa." I stand and move toward the door, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body, like I'm floating above myself watching this happen to someone else. My hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.

"Giulia."

I turn back.

“I see you chose your mother’s earrings. A good choice. She was a good wife. She was faithful to the end, and she gave me an heir. Keep her in your mind tonight.”

And then she died before she could ever become a problem. The thought, like the ones that just came before, startles me. It’s not like me to be so reactive, to even think back, much less talk back. I nod, forcing a small smile to my lips.

"Of course, Papa."

I leave his office and close the door behind me. My hands are trembling slightly, and I press them against my stomach, trying to calm the sudden nausea rising in my throat.

This is my life. This has always been my life. I've known since I was a little girl that I would be married off for the family's benefit, that my value lay in what alliance I could bring, what connections I could forge. I've been groomed for this, polished and perfected like a diamond meant to be sold. And I've accepted it, because what choice did I have?

But acceptance and wanting are two very different things. And that difference is suddenly hitting me far too hard. 

I reach up and touch one of the earrings. My mother wore these on her wedding day. I wonder if she felt like this too, like she was being led to slaughter in a beautiful dress. I wonder if she ever regretted it.

Down the hall, I can hear the sounds of final preparations—the clink of crystal, the murmur of staff moving through rooms, and the low rumble of male voices. Romeo must be here already, and probably Luca too. My brother's right hand, his best friend, the man who's been a fixture in our house for as long as I can remember.

The man I've been in love with since I was sixteen years old.

I push that thought away as soon as it surfaces, burying it deep where it can't hurt me. Luca is off-limits in every possible way. He's Romeo's best friend, he works for my family, and even if none of that mattered, he's made it abundantly clear since I came back from boarding school that he sees me as nothing more than his best friend's little sister. The easy affection he used to show me is gone, replaced by professional distance and careful politeness.

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

I take a deep breath and start to walk down the hall to the entryway of the mansion. 

The first floor has been transformed, even more polished and decorative than usual—not unlike me. Every surface gleams, every flower is perfectly arranged, every detail is exactly as it should be. Our chef has outdone himself with the menu, and the dining room table will be set with our finest china and crystal. It's a display of wealth and power, subtle but unmistakable. This is what you could have, it says. This is what an alliance with the Ciresas means.

I find Romeo in the living room, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He's dressed in a tailored dark suit that probably cost more than most people make in a month, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his expression unreadable. When he sees me, something flickers across his face—a hint of guilt mingled with sympathy. 

"Giulia," he says, and his voice is gentler than usual. "You look beautiful."

I wince. My brother loves me, in his way, but he’s also a diagnosed sociopath. I’m the only person he ever felt an emotion for, before he met Savannah. Savannah’s ability to make him feel romantic love is the reason he became so obsessed with her and fought so hard for her. His affection for me is something I’ve never taken for granted, but how gentle and careful he’s being now is a testament to what’s being set in motion tonight. 

"Thank you." I move to stand beside him, looking out at the driveway where cars will soon be arriving. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Dante wants me here. Show of family unity." He takes a sip of his drink, and I can feel him watching me. "Are you okay?"

The question surprises me even more. Romeo isn't usually one for emotional check-ins. "I'm fine."

"You don't have to do this, you know. Not if you don't want to."

I almost laugh at that. I can see he means it, but we both know it's not true. "Yes, I do. Papa made that very clear. You’re the heir, Romeo, you can get away with a lot that I can’t. You know that this isn’t optional."

Romeo's jaw tightens. "He's still angry about Savannah. He's taking it out on you."

"He's doing what he thinks is best for the family." The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I say them anyway. "And he's right. Someone needs to stabilize things after… everything that happened."

"That's not your responsibility."

"Isn't it?" I meet his eyes, and I see my own frustration reflected back at me. "I'm a Ciresa, Romeo. This is what we do. This is what's expected of us. I don’t begrudge you getting to do things differently, but it’s just not going to be the same for me. It never was."

He looks like he wants to argue, but before he can, I hear footsteps behind us. I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.

Luca.

He's walking into the room, and the sight of him makes everything else fade into the background. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and muscular build. His short dark hair is styled back from his face, showing off his sharp jawline and those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. The gold chain around his neck catches the light, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his collar.

He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and looking at him hurts.

"The first car just pulled up," he says to Romeo, his voice low and professional. Then his eyes flick to me, just for a second. "Giulia."

"Luca." I keep my voice steady, neutral, giving nothing away. I swear I hear it tremble the slightest bit, but if anyone else does, no one gives it away. 

There's a moment where we just look at each other, and I wonder if he can see it—the wanting, the longing, the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, things could be different. But then he looks away, his expression carefully blank, and I know the answer.

He doesn't see me. Not the way I want him to.

The distance between us feels like an ocean, and I'm drowning in it. This is how it's been since I came home—polite exchanges, nothing like the easy friendship we used to have. When I was younger, before boarding school, Luca would ruffle my hair and tease me. He'd answer my endless questions about his work with Romeo, would sometimes let me tag along when they weren't doing anything dangerous. He treated me like a little sister, and I was content with that because I was too young to want anything more.

But then I turned sixteen, and everything changed.

I remember the exact moment I realized I was in love with him. It was summer, and he and Romeo were in the gym, going through combat moves together. I was supposed to be studying, but I'd snuck out to watch them. Luca had his shirt off, his skin gleaming with sweat, and I’d felt something looking at him that I never had before. He was beautiful and dangerous and completely unaware that I was watching him with my heart in my throat.

I know now that first moment wasn’t love, of course—it was lust, pure and simple. But I spent the whole summer after that day memorizing every detail of his face, cataloging every smile, every laugh, every moment of kindness. And I fell so completely in love with him that I knew I'd never recover. 

For the next three years, I tried to forget him and convince myself it was just a crush, just adolescent infatuation that would fade with time and distance. For the remaining two years of boarding school, I tried not to think about him at all when I wasn’t home. 

But it didn't fade.

If anything, it got worse. I spent my last year at boarding school lying in my narrow bed at night, my hand between my legs, imagining it was Luca touching me. I would picture his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his body pressing me into the mattress. I imagined what his voice would sound like when he said my name in the dark, what his weight would feel like on top of me, what it would be like to finally, finally have him the way I wanted him. 

I would come thinking about him, biting my pillow to muffle my moans, and then I would lie there in the dark feeling guilty and ashamed and desperately, achingly lonely. Because I knew it would never happen. I knew that Luca saw me as nothing more than Romeo's little sister, someone to be protected and kept at a distance. And even if he did want me—which he clearly didn’t and still doesn’t—it would never be allowed. Romeo would kill him. My father would kill him. The entire family would see it as a betrayal.

So I buried those feelings as deep as I could and told myself they would fade when I came home and saw him again. That reality would kill the fantasy.

But reality has only made it worse. Now I see him almost every day, and every interaction is a fresh wound. Every polite greeting, every moment he looks at me with those blank, professional eyes—it's killing me. And worse are the moments when I feel a sliver of connection with him, like when I helped protect Savannah from her insane ex-fiancé not all that long ago. Luca was there, bringing men to back us up, and I saw the appreciation in his eyes when he realized I’d stood my ground, that I was braver and stronger than he’d probably ever realized before.

Those moments don’t happen often. And I don’t think they’re what I wish they were. 

"I should go greet our guests," I say quickly, and I don't wait for a response before I walk away.

The first to arrive is Marco Ferri. He looks to be in his mid-forties, average height, thinning hair, with a face that's more distinguished than handsome. But he's wealthy, well-connected, and his family controls significant territory in the northern part of the state. He greets my father with the easy familiarity of old business associates, shakes Romeo's hand, and then turns to me.

"Signorina Ciresa," he says, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your father has told me so much about you."

His hand is soft, and his lips are dry against my skin. I smile and say all the right things, playing the part of the gracious hostess, but inside I'm screaming. This man is old enough to be my father. The thought of him touching me, of sharing a bed with him, makes my skin crawl. Just him holding my hand makes me want to flinch, but I force myself into complete stillness, and I keep smiling.

"The pleasure is mine, Signor Ferri. Welcome to our home."

"Please, call me Marco." His eyes sweep over me assessingly, and I feel like livestock being evaluated at market. "Your father didn't exaggerate. You're even more beautiful than he described."

"You're too kind."

"Not at all. Beauty like yours is rare, especially combined with such grace and breeding." He's still holding my hand, his thumb brushing against my knuckles in a way that makes my stomach turn. "I look forward to getting to know you better this evening."

I extract my hand as politely as I can and excuse myself to greet the next arrival. My skin feels contaminated where he touched me, and I have to resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.

The next few men are all much older than I am, just like Marco, until Enzo Gallari arrives. He's younger—maybe thirty—and handsome in a way that's almost too perfect. He has dark hair and eyes, and a smile that’s charming and only enhances his features, but has absolutely no actual warmth. He's wearing an expensive suit and even more expensive cologne, and when he takes my hand, he holds it just a little too long.

"Giulia.” I notice he doesn't call me Signorina; he doesn't show the proper respect. "I've been looking forward to this evening."

There's something in his eyes that makes my stomach turn. It’s predatory and possessive, like he's already decided I belong to him. His hand is warm and slightly damp, and when he finally releases mine, I have to resist the urge to wipe it on my dress.

"Thank you for coming, Signor Gallari."

"Enzo, please. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, I think. No need for formality." His smile widens, and it makes me want to step back. "I have to say, the pictures your father showed me didn't do you justice. You're exquisite."

The way he says it makes me feel naked, exposed—like he's already imagining what I look like without my clothes on, what I would sound like underneath him. I force myself to smile and thank him, to play the part I'm supposed to play. But inside, I'm recoiling. I have that feeling, again, like I want to scream.

Alessandro Ferrucci is the last to arrive, and he's different from the other two. He's closer to my age, possibly mid to late twenties, and handsome in a more understated way. He has dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and his smile is the most genuine of the lot, as far as I can tell. When he greets me, he's respectful—almost shy. I don’t hate him as much as I do the others on sight. 

"It's an honor to meet you, Signorina Ciresa," he says, and his voice seems more genuine than the others. "Thank you for having me in your home."

Out of all of them, he's the one I should prefer. He's kind, he's age-appropriate, and he doesn't make my skin crawl. But when I look at him, I feel nothing. No spark, no attraction, no interest whatsoever.

I try not to think about why that is, but deep down, I know. It’s because he's not Luca.

"The honor is mine, Signor Ferrucci. Please, come in."

"Alessandro, please." His smile is warm, genuine, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes at how every single man has said the exact same thing. Please call me by my first name, we’re going to get to know each other so well. "I hope we'll have a chance to talk this evening. Your father mentioned you had a particular interest in classic literature. I hope we can discuss it more."

At least he's making an effort to see me as a person, not just a prize to be won. I should be grateful for that. I should appreciate his kindness. But all I can think is that he's not the man I want.

We move into the dining room, and I find myself seated between Alessandro and Enzo, with Marco across from me. My father is at the head of the table, Romeo to his left, and Luca is sitting next to Romeo. Normally, I would be to my father’s right, but tonight I’ve been put in the middle of the guests—the better for them to engage me in conversation, I think. Further away from Luca, which is definitely not by design—no one knows how I feel about him, not even Luca—but it feels purposeful all the same. 

I force myself not to think about how I’d so much rather be sitting across from him. 

The meal begins, and I play my part perfectly. I smile at the right moments, laugh at the right jokes, and ask the right questions. I'm the perfect daughter, the perfect potential wife, giving each of these men exactly what they want to see. Marco talks about his business ventures, his properties, and his connections. "I have holdings in three states now," he says, cutting into his steak with precise movements. "Real estate, mostly, but I've been diversifying into shipping. The profit margins are excellent, and with the right connections—which your family has, of course—the potential for growth is substantial." 

He's clearly trying to impress me with his wealth and power, and I nod along, making appropriate sounds of interest. "That sounds very impressive, Signor Ferri."

"Marco, please, like I said before." He smiles at me, and there's something paternal in it that makes my skin crawl. "I think you and I could have a very comfortable life together, Giulia. I have a house in the city, another in the Hamptons, and I'm considering purchasing a villa in Tuscany. You'd want for nothing. I’ve long wanted a wife to heap luxury on. I do love spoiling a beautiful woman. You could have anything you wanted."

Except love, or passion. Except for any say in my own life. Once again, the thoughts startle me. I’ve been resigned up until now. Why am I suddenly bucking against this so hard? Is it just because it’s real, now? Because it’s so clear that I’ve never had a choice? Or has seeing Romeo with Savannah over the past months subconsciously made me want things I never did before, and now it’s finally coming to the surface? 

"That's very generous," I say, because what else can I say?

Enzo is more aggressive in his approach. He leans in close when he talks to me, his hand occasionally brushing against my arm or my shoulder. "You know, Giulia," he says, his voice low and intimate, "I think you and I would be very good together. You're beautiful, intelligent, well-bred—everything a man could want in a wife."

His hand lands on my knee under the table, and I have to physically stop myself from flinching away. "You're very kind, Signor Gallari."

"Enzo." His fingers squeeze slightly, possessively. "And I'm not being kind. I'm being honest. I've been looking for a wife for some time now, someone who could stand beside me as I expand my family's operations. Someone who understands our world, who knows how to navigate it. Someone like you. The fact that you are so exquisitely beautiful makes me all the more excited to make this a reality."

There's an assumption in his words that makes my teeth clench. He's already decided this is happening, that I'm going to choose him, and my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. His hand is still on my knee, his thumb making small circles that make me want to stab him with my fork.

"I appreciate your interest," I say carefully, shifting slightly so his hand falls away. "But I think it's important to take time to get to know each other properly before making any decisions."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Though I think you'll find we're very compatible. In all ways."

The implication in his tone makes me want to throw my wine in his face.

Alessandro is different. He asks me questions about myself—what I studied at boarding school, what I like to read, what I think about current events. He actually listens to my answers, and when he talks about his own interests, there's a genuine enthusiasm there. "I've always been fascinated by literature of the past," he says, leaning forward slightly. "My mother was a writer, actually. Not professionally, but she was quite talented. She used to read to me often when I was young, teach me about different eras of literature and the men and women who shaped them. When your father mentioned you had a particular interest, I was excited to meet someone who shares that interest."

It's the first genuine connection I've felt all evening, and I find myself engaging more than I probably should. "Who was her favorite author?”

“Dostoevsky,” he says with a slight grimace. “Dark, I know. But she also loved Wilde, Stoker, and Brontë.”

“I do love Dorian Gray. And I know it’s almost cliché, but Pride and Prejudice, of course,” I admit.

We end up talking about books for several minutes, and it's almost pleasant. Almost normal, like we're two people having a conversation instead of a man who might all but purchase me from my father and a woman who has no real say in who she’s going to marry. But then his hand reaches over to touch my arm—just a brief, gentle touch that probably looks reassuring to everyone else—and I see something in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable.

There’s a possessiveness there, a certainty that feels like he's already decided I'm his.

"I'd love to take you to a gallery opening next week," he says. "There's a new exhibition at the Met that I think you'd enjoy. We could make an evening of it—dinner, the gallery, maybe a walk through Central Park afterward. With proper security, of course."

He's asking me on a date, and everyone at the table is watching to see how I'll respond.

"That sounds lovely," I hear myself say, because what else can I say? I could tell him no, I suppose, but out of everyone I’ve met so far, he’s the best option. I’d rather deal with a date with him than anyone else here.

His smile widens, and I see my father nod approvingly from the head of the table. I've done well. I've made the right choice.

I feel like I'm suffocating.

Alessandro takes his attention away from me long enough to address my father, asking him questions about business, about how the Ciresa holdings are doing. It seems carefully couched in hints that perhaps the Ciresas are struggling since the chaos of the Beauregard matter, and I see Romeo tense out of the corner of my eye. But my father is quick to tell Alessandro how well we’re doing, about expansions and other business matters that I quickly tune out. It’s not as if I’ve ever been included in them, anyway.

Throughout the meal, I'm constantly aware of Luca's presence. Every time I glance toward him, his expression is carefully neutral. But sometimes I catch him looking at me, and there's something in his eyes that I can't quite read, a look of irritation, I think. It's gone before I can analyze it, replaced by that careful blankness, but it was there.

Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

The conversation continues, flowing around me as if I’m an object, and everyone else is a river in constant motion. Marco tells a long story about a business deal that I'm sure is meant to be impressive, but just makes me want to fall asleep. Enzo makes increasingly inappropriate comments that he seems to think are charming, his hand finding excuses to touch me—my arm, my shoulder, once even brushing against my hair. Alessandro continues to be perfectly pleasant and perfectly attentive, asking me questions about my time at boarding school, my interests, my thoughts on various topics.

And through it all, I'm dying inside. None of these men makes me feel anything. There’s no attraction, no chemistry, no spark of interest. They're strangers evaluating me like a piece of property, and I'm expected to choose one of them to spend the rest of my life with. I'm expected to let one of them touch me, kiss me, take me to bed. I'm expected to bear his children and run his household and smile through it all like I'm grateful for the opportunity.

And the man I actually want is sitting a few chairs down, looking at me like I'm nothing more than his best friend's little sister.

Midway through the main course, I notice Luca shift slightly, his jaw tight. He's looking at Enzo, who has just reached over to touch my arm again, his fingers lingering on my skin. There's something dark in Luca's expression, something violent, but it's gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. 

Then he pushes his chair back abruptly, gets up, and walks out of the room.

My eyes widen with shock, and my heart stutters in my chest. His proximity to Romeo is the only reason he could get away with something like that—my father would kill a lesser man for such rudeness. But why would he do that? All I can think is that my presence has become utterly unbearable to him. This whole thing probably seems like absolute foolishness to him, and seeing me being fawned over probably disgusts him.

Not only does he not want me, he doesn't even want to be near me.

"Giulia?" Alessandro's voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you alright? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Just a bit warm. It's been a long evening."

"Would you like to step outside for some air? The garden is beautiful at night."

It's a test, I realize. He's asking if I'm interested enough to spend time alone with him, if I'm willing to give him a chance. 

"That sounds lovely," I hear myself say, desperate not to spend time with Alessandro, but to get away from the table as soon as possible, and the glaringly empty chair where Luca was.

His smile widens, and I see my father nod approvingly. I've made the right choice. Again.

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. Dessert is served—a delicate panna cotta that I push around my plate without really eating. Coffee is offered, and the conversation continues, but I'm barely present. Finally, mercifully, the meal ends. Alessandro stands and offers me his arm. "Shall we take that walk?"

I take his arm and let him lead me out into the garden. The cool evening air feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the dining room, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.

The garden is beautiful, lit by strategically placed lights that make the flowers glow and cast romantic shadows across the paths. It's the perfect setting for a courtship. 

Alessandro leads me down the winding path. "This is beautiful," he says, gesturing to the roses that line the path. "Your family has excellent taste."

"Thank you. My mother designed most of it before she passed."

"I'm sorry for your loss." His voice is gentle and sincere. I should appreciate it, but I just nod, feeling hollow and numb. I’ve been given so much, and I suppose I should be appreciative that this is all that’s being asked of me—to let myself be courted by a handsome man. But all I want is for the night to be over. 

We walk in silence for a moment, and I'm grateful for it. The quiet feels like a reprieve after the constant performance of dinner. But then Alessandro speaks again.

"I want you to know, Giulia, that I'm not trying to rush you into anything. I know this is all very formal and probably uncomfortable. But I'd like to get to know you, if you're willing. As a person, not just as a potential alliance. Your father’s business interests are very tempting, but you are even more so. It’s you that I’m most interested in."

It seems like he means it. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. He's genuinely trying to be kind, to make this easier for me.

And I feel nothing.

"That's very thoughtful of you," I say, because it is. Because he deserves credit for trying to be decent in a world that doesn't require it, if he’s being honest. 

"I know I'm not the only one your father is considering," he continues. "And I know you probably have your own preferences. But I hope you'll give me a chance. I think we could be good together."

He stops walking and turns to face me, and there's something earnest in his expression that makes me feel guilty for not being able to return his interest. "I'm not like Marco or Enzo," he says. "I don't just see you as a business transaction or a prize to be won. I see you as a person, Giulia. A beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves to be treated with respect and kindness."

It's exactly what I should want to hear. It's everything a woman in my position could hope for—a husband who will treat her well, who sees her as more than just a means to an end. But it's not enough. Because respect and kindness are wonderful, but they aren't love. They aren't passion. They aren't the desperate, consuming need I feel when I look at Luca.

"I appreciate that, Alessandro. Truly." I try to put warmth into my voice, to give him something even if it's not what he wants. "You've been very kind tonight."

"I'd like to see you again. Outside of these formal dinners, if you're willing. Maybe that gallery opening I mentioned? Or we could just have coffee, talk more. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He's asking for permission. Asking if I'm interested. And the kind thing to do, the right thing to do, would be to tell him the truth—that I'm not interested, that I'll never be interested, that he's wasting his time.

But I can't do that. Because if I eliminate Alessandro, I'm left with Marco or Enzo, or one of the others, and that's not an option.

So instead, I smile and say, "I'd like that."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but he doesn't seem to notice. He smiles back, relieved, and we continue our walk. He talks about his family, his work, his plans for the future, asking me more questions about our family’s businesses, which I answer as much as I can… which is to say, not much at all. He's intelligent and articulate, and under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the conversation.

But all I can think about is Luca, and the distance between us that I can't seem to bridge, no matter how hard I try.

When we finally return to the house, the other guests are preparing to leave. I say my goodbyes, accepting Marco's kiss on my hand and dodging Enzo's attempt to kiss my cheek. Alessandro is the last to leave, and he takes my hand gently.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Giulia. I hope we can do this again soon."

"I'd like that."

Another lie. I'm getting good at them.

After they're gone, my father calls me into his study. Romeo is there, but Luca is nowhere to be seen. The absence feels like a wound.

"You did well tonight, piccola," my father says, and there's approval in his voice. "Alessandro seems quite taken with you. I think he'll make an excellent match. Marco and Enzo are both possibilities as well. Marco is settled and has substantial wealth of his own, and Enzo is poised to become a well-connected heir. I’d like you to spend more time with all of them. More dinners and such will be arranged, of course."

I force myself to smile and nod. "Thank you, Papa. Of course."

"I'm pleased with how you handled yourself tonight," my father continues. "You were gracious, charming, exactly what a Ciresa daughter should be. You've made me proud."

The words should make me happy. They should fill me with warmth and satisfaction. But instead, they just make me feel empty.

"Thank you, Papa," I say, because that's what's expected.

"You're dismissed. Get some rest. We have a busy week ahead."

I leave the study and make my way upstairs, my legs feeling like lead. My room feels like a cage when I close the door behind me, and I lean against it, trying to catch my breath.

This is my life. This is my future. I'm going to marry one of these men, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life pretending to be happy about it. I'm going to let him touch me, let him into my bed, let him use my body to produce heirs for his family.

And I'm never going to know what it's like to be with someone I actually want.