A Choice of Our Own

The Man Everyone Feared

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, the numbers floated behind my lids. €500,000. One year. Marriage. Damiano De Luca. A loop I couldn't escape.

By morning, I was exhausted. By afternoon, I was angry. And by evening, I found myself standing outside De Luca Tower, staring up at a building that seemed to scrape the sky itself.

Which made me even angrier.

"This doesn't mean I'm accepting," I muttered under my breath. The words felt hollow, even to me.

The tower rose into the Milan skyline like a monument to everything I'd never had. Glass. Steel. Power. The kind of place where people made decisions that affected entire countries. The kind of place where someone like me didn't belong.

I looked down at my outfit. Simple jeans. A plain sweater. Shoes that had seen better days. I suddenly felt very, very underdressed.

The revolving doors opened automatically, and I stepped through before I could talk myself out of it.

Inside, everything gleamed. Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. Golden lighting made everything look warm and expensive. Employees in tailored suits moving with purpose, none of them looking stressed, none of them looking like they'd spent the morning crying over hospital bills.

Lucky them.

"Miss Russo?"

I turned. A receptionist smiled at me from behind a desk that probably cost more than my car.

"Mr. Vieri informed us you would be arriving."

Of course he did.

She handed me a visitor pass. "Thirty-second floor."

I took it, my fingers brushing against the plastic. "Thanks."

The elevator ride felt endless. I watched the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from the polished doors. Dark hair. Simple clothes. Tired eyes. I looked exactly like what I was: a girl who didn't belong here.

Ding.

The doors opened.

A man was already waiting. Tall. Broad shoulders. Built like someone who could break you in half without breaking a sweat. Dark suit. Expressionless face, definitely a bodyguard.

"I'm Marco." His voice was flat. Monotone.

I immediately decided I liked Alessandro more. At least Alessandro smiled. Marco looked like smiling would cause him physical pain.

"This way."

He led me down a long hallway. Every step made my stomach twist tighter. I hated that. I hated that some billionaire I'd never met had managed to upend my entire life in less than twenty-four hours.

We stopped outside a pair of black doors. Marco opened them without knocking.

I stepped inside.

And froze.

The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire city. A bookshelf that covered one entire wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that probably hadn't been touched in years. A massive desk near the centre, scattered with papers and a laptop.

Behind the desk stood a man.

Damiano De Luca.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Not because he was handsome, though he was, annoyingly. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. No, it was something else. Something I couldn't name.

Presence.

The room seemed built around him. Like everything in it the windows, the books, the air itself naturally bent in his direction. Power radiated off him without effort. He wasn't smiling. Wasn't trying to impress me. Wasn't doing anything at all.

And yet he commanded every inch of that space.

His eyes lifted from the documents in front of him. Dark. Piercing. They settled on me, and I felt like I'd been stripped bare.

I suddenly understood why newspapers called him intimidating. Those eyes missed nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Several seconds passed. Neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally

"You kept me waiting."

I blinked. "What?"

His expression didn't change. "You were scheduled to arrive at four."

I glanced at my watch. 4:07. Seven minutes. He was complaining about seven minutes.

I stared at him. "You invited me to a fake marriage."

"Contract marriage."

"Whatever." I felt my temper spike. "And you're complaining about seven minutes?"

For the first time, something flickered across his face. Amusement. Tiny. Gone almost instantly.

But I saw it.

Good. Maybe he was human after all.

Damiano leaned back slightly, studying me. "You have questions."

"Several."

"Ask them."

I crossed my arms. "Why me?"

Direct. Simple. The question that had been eating at me for nearly two days.

The room fell silent. Damiano's gaze remained fixed on me, unreadable. Then he answered.

"Because you're qualified."

I stared. "I'm qualified to be a wife?"

"Temporary wife."

"That doesn't make it better."

Another flicker of amusement. Behind me, Marco looked mildly shocked. Apparently, people didn't argue with Damiano De Luca. I was discovering I enjoyed it.

"What exactly makes me qualified?"

Damiano was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was measured. Careful.

"You're intelligent." Unexpected. "You have no criminal record." Oddly specific. "You're loyal to your family."

My chest tightened at that last one. "And?"

His gaze lingered on me longer than necessary. I felt heat creep up my neck.

Then he stood. The man was unfairly tall. I immediately regretted being short. He walked around the desk, each step measured, deliberate. Stopped in front of me.Close enough for me to notice the faint scar near his jaw. Close enough to make my heart hammer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne something woodsy and expensive.

"Because I trust you," he said.

I frowned. That made no sense. "You don't know me."

His eyes darkened. "That's where you're wrong."

A strange feeling settled in my stomach. The feeling that somehow, somehow, this wasn't the first time our paths had crossed. That there was something he knew. Something I didn't.

And judging by the look in Damiano's eyes, he had no intention of telling me.

Not yet.