Scandalous Arrangement

LORENZO There were a few things about my parents that had always irritated me endlessly, and their relentless obsession with deciding what they believed was best for me topped the list. I had told them, begged them, reasoned with them three years ago when this arranged marriage with Barbara was set up, even threatened to marry a goat from Santorini if they didn’t stop, because that goat would surely piss me off less than Barbara does. But all my speeches and warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Don’t get me wrong, born into wealth, I was no stranger to suffocating expectations. My father, an Italian olive oil tycoon based in Greece, had built an empire from the ground up, exporting high-end oil to nearly every continent. My sister, Selena, and I had enjoyed the finest tutors, traveled the globe before we could spell “airport,” and eaten caviar before we learned how to ride a bike. Selena was now married to a British nobleman. Lovely man. Very… boring. That had been two years ago, shortly before my mother died. I, on the other hand, had taken the reins of the family business after my father’s retirement last year and had since tripled our profit margins. Planting, pressing, importing, I knew the business better than anyone. Yet that wasn’t enough. No, no, no, I had to give up my freedom too. There were so many other things I would rather be doing right now, like sitting across from the gorgeous woman, Isabella, a few seats away, hiding slightly behind a pillar. She was pretending to focus on her menu, but I knew she was watching us, following my father’s instructions to the letter. The fact that he had threatened to marry her himself and leave all my inheritance to her should have made me furious, but instead, I found myself oddly curious about her. And I had a feeling my father was lying through his teeth. I was ready to call his bluff. Isabella wasn’t the type of woman he liked. Yes, he preferred them far younger than him, but there was a softness to her appearance, her walk, that didn’t fit his usual preferences. Her friend Charlotte fit the picture better, but he had probably chosen Isabella because she was easier to manipulate, seeking a favor from him, or maybe… I didn’t know. But I wanted to know her story. Ever since being enveloped by that sweet honey scent and those deep brown eyes in the elevator, I’d been longing to know her, and nothing was going to take that away. Not my father’s threat, not this annoying date with the loudmouthed little brat sitting across from me, whom, for the love of all things holy, I could not stand. The fact that I had to marry her or lose my inheritance had me beyond irritated. This match had been arranged without my consent. I hadn’t even been consulted before my father proudly announced that I was to marry Barbara Hill, daughter of his oldest business ally. And Barbara? She was just as disinterested as I was. From the moment we met, she made it abundantly clear she had no intention of marrying me. In fact, she told me so. Bluntly. Loudly. At a gala. In front of three diplomats and one horrified priest. I remember her exact words: “I’d rather shave my head with a butter knife.” Lovely introduction. I was relieved we were on the same page, because I did not like anything about her. Her lashes were always too long, her makeup too much—maybe she was trying to audition for a f*****g clown. Then there was her mouth, sharp, smug, and always locked and loaded with the next verbal ambush. She flirted shamelessly with every halfway handsome man in sight, smoked like a chimney, and drank enough at parties to drown a small army. She was spoiled, entitled, reckless, arrogant, and possibly a drug addict. Either her parents were oblivious to it, or they had arranged this marriage to pass that burden to me. And worse? She was witty. Devastatingly so. God, I hated that wit. The first time I’d been forced to accompany her to a charity ball, she’d downed four glasses of champagne, dragged me outside, lit a cigarette, and blown a perfect ring of smoke directly into my face. I’d almost thrown her into the reflecting pool. After that evening, I told my parents, clearly and without hesitation, that I was done. That I would rather stay single for life than endure one more dinner with that wretched, spoiled brat. I even declared that she wasn’t fit to marry anyone, not even a beggar. My mum had cried an entire bucket of tears after that. She claimed she was dying of a broken heart, clutched her pearls, whispered about legacy, and begged me to try. Just try. Please… And it is actually because of my mum, because it was her last wish before she died, that I am here now, in a restaurant so exclusive they charge a thousand dollars for still water, with candlelight flickering between us and the scent of truffle oil hanging in the air, trying again to see if I can find even one common ground with this woman. Barbara was scrolling through her phone, her nails clicking against the screen like an impatient metronome. Her perfume, something outrageously expensive, hung heavy between us, heady, sharp, too sharp. Jesus, does she know any moderation? As always, we barely spoke. On paper, we were “courting,” or at least trying to. In reality, we were silently enduring each other’s presence. I could back out now, damn the inheritance, but no. No, I would see this through. I would tame her. I glanced toward Isabella again. She seemed to be egging me on with a sly little smile, as if to say: Say something, man. I fought the urge to roll my eyes and forced my attention back to Barbara. I didn’t even realize I’d been staring at her until she slowly lifted her head from her phone. “You’re staring,” she said flatly, through gritted teeth, each word crisp, edged with disdain, dripping with that tiny, screeching voice of hers. I blinked, leaned back, and shook my head slightly. “There’s nothing about you worth staring at, Miss Hill. My mind wandered elsewhere. My eyes merely landed on you out of sheer misfortune.” She raised a brow. Her lips parted, then closed again, like she wanted to toss a verbal grenade but decided against it. Instead, she offered a tight, condescending smile. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your itinerant eyes to yourself,” she said. “Play with your phone if you’re as bored as I am.” Though I was used to Barbara’s sharp tongue by now, I couldn’t help being struck by how easily certain words rolled off her lips, words that would have caused any other woman to blush, or at least hesitate. She had just told me to stare at my phone like she was doing, as if we weren’t sitting across from each other, dressed to the nines, in a restaurant where the clink of crystal and murmurs of polished conversation floated through the air. As if there weren’t always eyes watching. Reporting. Isabella, for one, and her chauffeur for another, I knew he was. I exhaled heavily and reached for my drink. A stiff bourbon, because God knew I needed something stronger than patience to sit across from this woman for another hour. The glass was cold in my hand, heavy, sweating with condensation. I took a slow sip. It burned just enough to remind me I was still sane. Barbara crossed her legs with a careless flick of her heel and returned to scrolling on her phone, looking every bit like a bored duchess forced to dine with her driver. I adjusted in my chair with a heavy sigh. The soft velvet cushion creaked beneath me. My shirt collar itched slightly, a designer piece I hadn’t even chosen myself. Patrick, my assistant, had picked out the entire outfit, from the navy cashmere blazer to the monogrammed cufflinks. He’d also spent an absurd amount of time fussing over how approachable I should look for the lady. The man had a silver tongue, especially with women. No wonder he was one of the biggest rakes in town, charming even the fiercest, most scandal-prone heiresses, occasionally into bed, and sometimes into silence. Barbara uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, her red-bottom stilettos clicking gently against the marble floor. “You’re still staring,” she said, annoyance sharpening her voice. “We could sit here all evening without so much as looking at each other.” I didn’t blink. I locked eyes with her, holding my gaze a moment longer than necessary. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve by being this difficult,” I said calmly, the chill in my tone betraying my rising irritation. “But let’s make one thing clear, I’m as uninterested in this ridiculous arrangement as you are. I’d rather spend my evening negotiating a shipping contract in Cairo than sitting across from a shrew.” Her wine glass clinked against the table as she slammed it down. “How dare you call me a shrew?” she snapped. Her eyes, dark and flashing, looked positively feral. Her spine straightened, nostrils flaring. She seemed ready to leap across the table and strangle me with her tiny hands. “Easy now,” I muttered, raising a hand. “I know no one’s watching, but you could at least try to act civil.” “Damn you and every pompous word that comes out of your smug mouth,” she hissed. “You bring out the worst in me, and I will never stop telling you that.” “Then tell it to your parents,” I said dryly. “They’re the ones who want this.” “You think I haven’t?” she scoffed. Her laugh was throaty, humorless, and far too loud for the atmosphere. Heads turned discreetly. She didn’t care. Barbara Hill had never possessed the grace of a noblewoman, carrying herself like royalty who refused the crown. “I have no idea what you’ve said to them, and frankly I don’t care,” I said, glancing down at her untouched dessert. “But for tonight, well, we’re meant to spend the night together.” Her expression froze.