By the fourth day of my marriage, I had decided that Matteo Marchetti was the most infuriating man in Italy.
Possibly the world.
He had perfected the art of being everywhere and nowhere at once.
His presence haunted the penthouse even in his absence. The scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne lingered in the hallways long after he left for meetings. His neatly arranged files occupied the study with military precision, every document aligned perfectly as though chaos itself was forbidden to exist near him. Late at night, when I passed his office on the way to the kitchen, I would hear the low murmur of his voice through closed doors—calm and dangerous.
And yet emotionally, he remained completely unreachable.
Distant.
Like standing too close to winter sunlight: beautiful but impossib
