Married By Mistake

Machines beeped in rhythm with my mother’s shallow breaths, and the oxygen mask fogged with every exhale. She was fading, but her spirit hadn’t dimmed. If anything, she was sharper, harsher, like she wanted to cut me with her last words. “You can’t keep living like this, Isabella,” she rasped, her eyes—once so fierce—now sunken but still burning. “A woman like you cannot die alone. You need a husband. A companion for the lonely nights.” I stiffened in the leather chair at her bedside. There it was again. The one topic we always fought about. “I don’t need a husband, Mama. I need peace. And a husband has never given you that, has he?” My voice cracked, but I forced it steady. Her lips tightened. “Your father was a bastard, yes. But he was mine. And I had you. That was worth everything.” I laughed bitterly. “Worth everything? He left you to raise me alone while he built another empire with another woman. He humiliated you, Mama. He destroyed us. And you still—” “Enough!” Her voice tore through the room, raw and desperate. “Don’t you understand? I don’t care who it is. Marry someone. Anyone. Before I die, I want to see you safe.” Safe. That word stung like a blade. Safe was her excuse for every sacrifice she ever made. Safe was why she stayed silent when Father abandoned us. Safe was why she built our empire from the ashes while bleeding inside. I rose to my feet, my chest heaving. “I will never make the same mistake you did, Mama. I won’t let love ruin me.” Her frail hand clutched at the blanket. “Then marry without love. I don’t care. Just… marry. Or don’t think of inheriting my company. Better not to have a child at all, than have one that reeks of loneliness.” The machines beeped faster, echoing the weight of her ultimatum. I froze at the harshness of her words, staring at the woman who had taught me strength, who had raised me into the steel spine of our billion-dollar company… and now she was asking me to do the very thing I despised. The very thing my young self had vowed never to do. Get married. Something inside me snapped. If it’s marriage she wants from me, then I’ll gladly give it to her. My throat burned as I whispered, “Fine. Have it your way.” And then I walked out. ⸻ The late afternoon sun stabbed at my eyes as I slid into my car. My driver asked where to, but I waved him off. I didn’t want the polished routes, the wide roads lined with boutiques and luxury cars. I wanted chaos. I wanted to feel dirt under my heels. So I dismissed him and drove myself, peeling away from the hospital with reckless speed. I didn’t even know where I was going until I found myself on a narrow backstreet I’d never taken before. A cluster of neon signs buzzed weakly, advertising cheap bars and cafés. The kind of place someone like me—Isabella Romano, heiress to the Romano Empire—had no business being. Perfect. I pulled over, stepped out in my designer heels, and felt dozens of eyes on me. Men smoking at the corner muttered, and women carrying groceries gawked. Let them. I pushed into the first bar I saw. It was dim inside, smelling of wood polish and beer. Behind the counter, a man looked up, wiping his hands on a rag. And for the first time all day, I paused. He was… beautiful. Not in the polished, manicured way the men in my circles were, but raw. Dark hair, slightly tousled. A jawline you could cut glass with. Broad shoulders under a plain white shirt rolled at the sleeves. His eyes—God, his eyes—steady and calm, like he wasn’t startled at all to see me there. “What can I get you?” he asked, his voice deep, smooth, unhurried. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Then I slid onto the stool and crossed my legs, meeting his gaze like I always did in boardrooms—with power. “What’s your name?” He blinked. “Matteo.” “Are you married, Matteo?” His brow furrowed, but he answered, “No.” “Girlfriend?” He hesitated. “Not anymore. She left.” I tilted my head. “Why?” He gave a half-smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Said I wasn’t enough for her. She wanted more. Money, comfort… things I can’t give.” Something in his tone made my chest tighten. Not pity, not weakness. Just plain honesty. And it was refreshing. “Perfect,” I said softly. His eyes narrowed. “Perfect?” I leaned in, my perfume curling into the air between us. “Tell me, Matteo… how would you feel about marrying someone like me?” The rag slipped from his hand. “Excuse me?” “You heard me,” I smirked. “Would you like to marry me?” His mouth parted, then closed again, like he was trying to decide if this was a joke. “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough,” I shot back. “You’re not married, you’re not taken, and you’re honest. That’s more than I can say for half the men I know.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re serious?” “Dead ass serious.” I slid my phone across the counter. “Put your number in. Meet me at Piazza della Libertà at eight tonight.” He didn’t move at first, but then, slowly, he picked up the phone and typed. I snatched it back, sent him a single text—Don’t be late—and stood. He called after me, “Wait—who are you?” I paused at the door, giving him a small smile. “You’ll find out.” And I left. ⸻ By the time the clock struck eight, the piazza was alive. Lanterns glowed, couples strolled, and street performers played violins under the fading sky. And in the center, tiny crowds gathered—because Isabella Romano was there. Cameras flashed, phones streamed, voices buzzed. And then I saw him. Matteo. He had tried his best—dark jacket, clean shoes—but he still looked deliciously out of place beside me. I could see the nerves in the way he glanced at the cameras, but his eyes found mine, steady again. Good. I was scared for a minute that he’d develop cold feet. I took a breath, stepped forward, and silence rippled through the crowd. Every lens focused on me. Every whisper rose into a gasp as I dropped to one knee in front of him. “Matteo,” I said, my voice carrying in the night air, “will you marry me?” The world froze. Phones shot up higher. People screamed. A hundred camera flashes blinded us. And Matteo… Matteo just stood there, stunned, his lips parted, as if the ground had vanished beneath his feet. And then—