The Billionaire’s Unwanted Wife

Chapter One The first time Serafina Romano realized she was going to marry Giovanni De Luca, the world did not shatter. It didn’t even tremble. It simply… settled. Like dust in a room no one had entered in years. She stood very still in her father’s study, fingers curled into the soft fabric of her dress, listening as Matteo Romano spoke in that calm, decisive tone that meant everything had already been decided. “This is a good match,” her father said, pouring himself a drink as though he were discussing business—which, to him, he was. “De Luca is powerful. Disciplined. A man who keeps his word.” Serafina swallowed. “And he agreed?” Her father’s lips curved faintly. “He proposed it.” Something inside her chest tightened—not sharply, not painfully. Just enough to remind her that she was alive. Of course he did. Giovanni De Luca did nothing without purpose. He didn’t laugh unnecessarily. He didn’t speak unless there was something worth saying. He certainly did not marry for love. Serafina knew that better than anyone. She had spent years watching him from the edges of rooms, from across long dining tables, from behind polite smiles and lowered lashes. Always present. Never seen. Always careful. Always quiet. Always… in love. “Do you have anything to say?” her father asked. She forced her voice to remain steady. “Does it matter?” Matteo Romano finally looked at her then—really looked at her—and there was something almost approving in his expression. “You are my daughter,” he said. “You understand what this means.” Yes. She did. It meant loyalty over longing. Duty over desire. A contract over a heartbeat. Serafina inhaled slowly, lifting her chin just enough to feel like she still had some control over her own life. “When is the wedding? The wedding was everything it was supposed to be. Grand. Impeccable. White roses lined the aisle in suffocating perfection. Cameras flashed like lightning, capturing a moment that looked like a fairytale to everyone watching. To everyone except the bride. Serafina stood at the altar in a dress that fit her like it had been sewn onto her skin, her pulse steady in a way that almost frightened her. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t even nervous. Because this—this quiet, aching acceptance—had been building inside her for years. And now it had simply taken form. She lifted her gaze. And there he was. Giovanni De Luca. Tall. Imposing. Unmovable. He stood like a man who owned everything in the room—including the air people breathed—and yet there was nothing indulgent about him. No arrogance. No unnecessary emotion. Just control. Always control. His dark eyes met hers, and for a brief moment—just a flicker—something shifted in her chest. Hope. Foolish, fragile, unwanted hope. Maybe… maybe this wouldn’t be as empty as she thought. Maybe he would look at her—not as a responsibility, not as an agreement—but as something more. But then he blinked. And the moment disappeared. His expression remained unchanged. Calm. Polite. Distant. Like she was exactly what she was. A decision. Not a choice. The priest spoke. Words blurred. Vows were exchanged. When Giovanni took her hand, his grip was firm—steady, grounding, but entirely impersonal. No hesitation. No warmth. No love. “I do,” he said. Two simple words. Delivered like a signature at the bottom of a contract. When it was her turn, Serafina found her voice easily. “I do.” Because she had already said those words long before this moment. Long before he ever asked. The reception was louder than she expected. Laughter. Music. Conversations layered over each other like waves crashing against stone. Serafina smiled when she was expected to. Spoke when spoken to. Played her role with effortless grace. She had always been good at that. But her attention… her attention kept drifting. To him. Giovanni stood across the room, surrounded by men who spoke to him with a mix of respect and caution. He listened more than he spoke, nodding occasionally, his presence commanding without effort. He didn’t look at her. Not once. It shouldn’t have mattered. And yet— “You look beautiful.” The voice pulled her from her thoughts. Serafina turned, offering a polite smile to one of the guests, murmuring a soft thank you. But the words barely registered. Because across the room, Giovanni finally moved. And for one irrational second, her heart betrayed her. It lifted. Just slightly. He was walking toward her. Each step measured. Intentional. People shifted out of his way without being asked. Of course they did. Giovanni De Luca did not need to ask for space. He took it. He stopped in front of her, his gaze settling on her face—not her dress, not the room, not anything else. Her. And suddenly, the noise around them faded. “You’ve done well,” he said. Serafina blinked. That wasn’t what she expected. “I… beg your pardon?” His expression didn’t change, but there was something quieter in his tone now. Less formal. Almost thoughtful. “The event,” he clarified. “Everything is in order.” Ah. Of course. Business. Always business. “I’m glad it meets your standards,” she replied softly. A pause. Small. Barely noticeable. But it was there. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, it made her breath catch. Giovanni studied her—not deeply, not intensely, but enough to make her aware of every inch of herself. “You understand what this is,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Serafina held his gaze, refusing to look away. “Yes.” Another pause. This one heavier. More deliberate. “And you are… comfortable with that?” There it was. Not concern. Not quite indifference either. Something in between. Something careful. Something controlled. She could have lied. She should have lied. But Serafina had spent too many years loving this man in silence to start pretending now. “I understand it,” she said instead. And for the first time that evening, something in Giovanni’s expression shifted. Not warmth. Not softness. But awareness. Like he had just realized something he hadn’t considered before. “Good,” he said quietly. And just like that— The moment ended. That night, the silence in their bedroom felt louder than the entire reception. Serafina stood near the window, her back to the room, her fingers resting lightly against the cool glass. The city stretched below them—bright, alive, indifferent. Much like the man behind her. She heard the door close. Measured footsteps. Then stillness. He didn’t speak immediately. Neither did she. Because there was something fragile in this moment—something undefined—and neither of them seemed willing to be the one who broke it first. Finally— “You should rest,” Giovanni said. Practical. Simple. Distant. Serafina let out a quiet breath, her reflection faint in the glass. “Is that all?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. And the moment it did— She regretted it. Silence followed. Heavy. Then— “No.” Her heart skipped. She turned slowly. Giovanni was watching her now. Really watching her. Not like before. Not like someone assessing a situation. But like someone trying to understand it. “Come here,” he said. Her pulse quickened. Not out of fear. Not entirely. But something else. Something far more dangerous. Hope. And despite everything she knew— Despite everything she had told herself— Serafina stepped toward him.