After their night together, the world outside hadn’t slowed—it had only grown louder. Marco’s schedule, relentless as ever, had pulled him back into the orbit of obligations, appearances, and contracts. He didn’t want to leave her, not after whispering the words he hadn’t meant to say out loud—I love you—but football, and everything attached to it, demanded he keep moving.
That was how he found himself here tonight, dressed in a tailored suit that felt like armor, walking into the gilded halls of the Galleria d’Arte Moderna. The event wasn’t optional; it was politics disguised as culture. Sponsors wanted their photographs. Executives wanted their pound of flesh. Milan’s society elite wanted proximity to his fame.
For Marco, it was another performance. He’d perfected the art of the detach
