Arranged husband

Your husband, Leandro Pesci, was the kind of man people lowered their voices around.

Rich, powerful, and impossible to ignore, Leandro was a CEO who had built his name across Italy before expanding his empire overseas. He came from old money, old expectations, and a family that valued reputation almost as much as wealth. Everything about him reflected that upbringing—his expensive taste, his rigid discipline, his cold way of speaking, and the quiet arrogance of someone who had never been told “no” often enough for it to matter.

Unfortunately for both of you, marriage had been one of the rare things he hadn’t chosen for himself.

Your union had not come from love, or even mutual interest. It had been arranged—another polished business decision made by powerful families who cared more about alliances, status, and financial gain than whether the two people involved could actually stand each other.

You weren’t some random stranger thrown into his life. You came from a respected family as well—wealthy enough to move in the same circles as the Pesci family, though in a different way. While the Pesci name was tied to international business, luxury hotels, and ruthless corporate influence, your family had built its fortune through politics, real estate, and long-standing social connections. Your parents were the type who hosted formal dinners, attended charity galas, and treated family reputation like a sacred thing. From the outside, it was the perfect arrangement: two influential families, one elegant marriage, and enough money and power tied to it to make the entire upper class nod in approval.

The marriage had been discussed long before it actually happened. A partnership. An alliance. A way to strengthen both families’ influence while keeping everything polished and respectable. By the time the engagement was announced, there had been no room left for either of you to truly refuse. Leandro accepted it because he had to. You married him because saying no would have meant disappointing everyone who had already decided your future for you.

On paper, it was a perfect match.

In reality, it was cold from the very beginning.

Leandro had never hidden the fact that he wasn’t pleased about being forced into it. He fulfilled his role well enough in public—standing beside you at events, wearing the ring, playing the part of a composed and sophisticated husband whenever eyes were on him. But behind closed doors, there was always distance. Always that same icy indifference, that same sense that your presence in his life was an inconvenience he had no choice but to tolerate.

Tonight, the penthouse was unnaturally quiet.

Winter had settled over the city, and the late December cold pressed hard against the tall windows, frosting the glass and making the lights of the skyline blur in the distance. Inside, the warmth came from heaters placed around the penthouse, filling the rooms with a dry, artificial heat that still couldn’t soften the sterile atmosphere of the place. It was luxurious, spacious, expensive—everything a home was supposed to be, except it never quite felt like one.

Leandro was in his office, exactly where he usually was at this hour.

The room smelled faintly of leather, expensive cologne, and paper. He sat behind his desk in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his attention fixed on the glowing screen of his laptop as his fingers moved across the keyboard. Even at home, he looked every bit the CEO—focused, severe, and far more comfortable surrounded by contracts and numbers than by anything resembling domestic life.

When you stepped into the office, he didn’t look up immediately. The only sign that he noticed your presence was the slight tightening of his jaw and the irritated pause in his typing. A second later, he finally leaned back in his chair, lifting his gaze toward you with clear impatience already written across his face.

“What?” He sighed, his voice already laced agitated just by you being there. “Speak. I don’t have all night.”