The Billionaire’s Stubborn Bride

RUBY "I can't do this, Dad," I protested against the declaration my father, Aolo Ferretti, had just made, his voice reflecting the finality of his decision. "I can't marry a man I don't know." "It's for the best, Piccolo," he responded. "You know I love you and wouldn't do anything to hurt you. This will benefit you and the family." "Benefit me?" I exclaimed in outrage. "How can marrying a man I don't know be good for me, Dad?" "Ruby, I know the Petraki family. They are good people. Urso has been my best friend since we were kids," he said, pacing the small space of his study. "Business and family took him to Greece, but we made a pact to unite our families, and now is the time. This marriage will be in your best interest." "In my best interest or the company's?" I countered. "I feel like I'm being treated like a commodity, sold to the highest bidder." "Ruby!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes widening. "I would never sell my daughter, never!" He asserts and moves closer, touching my shoulders to steady me. At that moment, I realized I was trembling with anger. I took a deep breath. "He's going to move to Milan. He'll join you in the family business, and we'll merge our businesses. You won't have to leave home," my dad explained. As I was reluctantly drawn into this marriage, it felt like the fulfillment of wishes between two older men playing with their children as if they were chess pieces. I could never believe that my dad was doing this solely for my well-being. I gently shook him off and walked over to the window in his study, gazing out at our estate. "What about Diavolo?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the world outside. Diavolo was my boyfriend for over a year now. I met him when he came to work at the part-time orphanage where I volunteer. He was a hardworking man, and I believe I was in love with him. Diavolo had made numerous efforts to gain my dad's approval, but my father had never given his blessing. It wasn't that my dad hated Diavolo; he didn't want his daughter to marry a plumber, something he considered beneath my social status. But Diavolo was the first man to look at me as a person, as Ruby, not just a name or the number of zeros in my bank account. "What about him?" my father mumbled while avoiding eye contact as I turned to look at him suspiciously. "Papa, what did you do?" I narrowed my eyes at him, walking up to face him on the other side of his desk where he was seated. "I did what I thought was best for you," he said quietly, clearly hoping not to upset me. Unfortunately, I had the infamous Ferretti temper, and I was trying hard to keep it under control. Our family's temper was a trait that ran in varying degrees in all of us. My father bought a hotel to close down the restaurant and fire the chef because of a bad dinner. My sister destroyed my father's car after he froze her credit cards. So, when my father looked guilty, like he had done something he knew I wouldn't approve of, that temper started to rise. He looked remorseful. "Diavolo isn't the right man for you, and we both know it. You're only dating him to punish me for interfering in your dating life and introducing you to all those eligible bachelors," he accused. I took a deep breath to calm down. There might have been some truth in what my father was saying, but it didn't stop the nagging feeling that he was once again meddling in my love life. Placing my hands on his desk, I locked eyes with him and asked, "What did you do, Papa?" "I offered him 5 million dollars to leave you, and he accepted. He cashed the check today," he admitted. The air left me, and I felt as if I had been dropped from a great height, crashing to the ground. I sank into a nearby chair, overwhelmed with a sense of foolishness. I dropped my face into my palms, questioning if I would ever truly learn. "I'm sorry, bambino. I didn't mean to hurt you," my dad tried to explain. "At least, now we know why he was with you, and now he's gone." Despite my anger toward my dad, the pain of realizing that Diavolo had accepted his money cut deeper. Would nobody ever love me for who I was? Was I nothing more than a source of income? I rose and quietly left the room. I intended to go upstairs to my room, but the anger rushed back like a torrent. All this time, I had believed he loved me, but it seemed he was only using me for the money. He must have considered me a fool, a spoiled heiress complaining about the burdens of wealth and being part of the Ferretti family. Parking before his house stirred memories I didn't want to remember. I clenched my hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Exiting the car and approaching his door, the sound of my Jimmy Choo heels clicking on the pavement filled me with determination. I knocked on the door and didn't wait long before hearing footsteps approaching. The moment he saw my face, his smile faded. "Your father told you?" he asked, opening the door wider and stepping back to let me in. I walked to the living room, where memories of us watching football on his couch, him teaching me how to make pasta, and our intimate moments flooded my mind. I shook my head to clear those memories. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "I needed the money," he responded, his back resting against the wall. Diavolo was a handsome man with rugged beauty. I remembered the first time he shook my hand, how his calloused palm gripped my manicured one. His skin was bronzed from working constantly in the sun, and his shoulder-length hair was usually kept in a low bun unless he was home, like now. His long legs were crossed, one above the other in a relaxed form, while his dark eyes remained steady on mine. "It's all a lie then," I stated the obvious. His face contorted as if in pain. "God, no. I love you. That's the truth. But I needed the money for us," he explained, stepping forward to hold my hands. I scoffed. He must have thought I was a complete fool. "Us?" I raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I needed the money to expand my business. When my business thrives, and I can take care of you as you're accustomed to, your father will have no choice but to respect us," he defended his actions. "My father will never respect you now. He will only see you as the man who accepted his money in exchange for his daughter," I bitterly laughed. "Frankly, I can't either." "What are you saying?" he inquired, gazing into my eyes. I returned his gaze—eyes that had once captivated me—but now all I felt was disgust. "This is over. It should never have gone this far," I said, taking my hands away and leaving. He moved with me, blocking my path to the door. "No, I don't agree. I'll give the money back. I can't lose you," he said frantically, running his hands through his black hair. "It's too late," I replied, walking past him. "Ruby, please. We can work this out," he pleaded from behind me, but I continued walking until I reached the door and grasped the handle. Then I turn to face him. "Why didn't you ask me for the money?" I inquired. He looked torn apart, and it would have been easy to step into his arms and comfort him. "Pride. I didn't want you to think I was with you because of the money," he whispered, sounding ashamed. The blood drained from my face. What I'd been avoiding in a man has returned to haunt me. I opened the door and walked out, leaning against it to hold myself up and keep from falling. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I gritted my teeth as I went to my car.