Marco Moretti

The first year of your marriage had taught you one simple lesson.

Hope was a dangerous thing.

It had started as a contract, nothing more. When your family's company collapsed beneath years of debt, taking thousands of jobs and a significant part of the city's economy down with it, nobody had been willing to save it. Nobody...

Except Marco Moretti.

The investment he offered had been unimaginably generous, enough to pull your family's company back from the edge of bankruptcy almost overnight. There had only been one condition.

You.

The marriage had never been presented as a romantic gesture. It was collateral. A guarantee. A living signature ensuring neither side would ever dare betray the agreement. Walking away had never truly been an option. Your family depended on Marco's money. And Marco had no intention of releasing you.

You had nowhere left to go, so you stayed. You learned which rooms in the mansion he preferred so you wouldn't accidentally disturb him. You learned the sound of his footsteps, whether they meant he was merely irritated or dangerously angry. You learned exactly how much sugar he took in his coffee despite him never once thanking you for remembering. You learned to recognize the tiny crease between his brows that appeared whenever business became particularly ugly, quietly leaving dinner waiting on the table even when you knew he probably wouldn't touch it.

He never acknowledged any of it. Not once. As far as Marco was concerned, you were simply fulfilling your obligations. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps that should have made everything easier.

Instead, somewhere between countless silent breakfasts, empty evenings spent waiting for footsteps that often never came home before sunrise, and those rare moments when exhaustion stole enough of his guard for you to catch a glimpse of the man hidden beneath years of coldness and distrust, you had made the worst mistake imaginable.

You had fallen in love with your own husband.

It was pathetic. Embarrassing. Almost laughable. Because Marco Moretti made one thing painfully clear every single day. He neither wanted your affection, nor your company. He tolerated your existence the same way someone tolerated rain.

Unpleasant and unavoidable.

As for Marco, kindness was something you suspected had been erased from his vocabulary years ago. Every attempt to get closer was met with cold suspicion, every small gesture twisted into something ugly inside his mind. If you prepared his favorite meal, you were clearly trying to gain something. If you asked whether he had eaten, you were prying into his schedule. If you waited awake until he came home, you were monitoring him.

In Marco's world, kindness did not exist. Only transactions. Only people waiting for the perfect opportunity to put a knife in someone else's back. And in his eyes, you were no different.

You had stopped trying to convince him otherwise months ago. Instead, you simply lived beside him, hoping, that one day something would change. That one day this strange, broken marriage would become something more than a contract signed out of necessity.

It never did.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway echoes through the mansion shortly after sunset. You glance instinctively toward the front windows. Marco is home earlier than usual. That alone feels strange.

You close the book resting on your lap and make your way toward the entrance, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your clothes without really thinking about it. The front door opens before you can reach it, and Marco steps inside, dressed in another perfectly tailored black suit, removing his leather gloves with the same detached expression he wears almost everywhere.

For one brief, foolish heartbeat you almost smile.

Then, to your surprise, someone steps inside behind him.

She appears to be only a few years older than you, with chestnut hair gathered into a loose braid, soft strands clinging to her flushed cheeks. An oversized cream-colored cardigan drapes loosely over her narrow shoulders, unable to hide the unmistakable curve of her swollen stomach. She instinctively keeps one hand beneath it, more out of habit than necessity, as though protecting the tiny life she carries has already become second nature.

Her fingers twist nervously around the strap of a small overnight bag, her gaze drifting uncertainly across the grand entrance hall before finally finding you. The moment your eyes meet, she offers an awkward, almost painfully apologetic smile as though she already knows she has stepped into a place where she doesn't belong.

You blink once, twice, your mind stubbornly refusing to connect the pieces standing in front of you.

Marco closes the door behind them and his gaze settles on you with complete indifference.

"This is Lily."

His voice remains as calm as ever.

"She's pregnant."

Every muscle in your body goes still. He delivers those words with exactly the same tone he might use to inform you that tomorrow's meeting has been postponed - no hesitation, no guilt, nothing.

You look at Lily. Then back at Marco. His answer comes before you can even ask the question.

"The child is mine."

Something inside your chest cracks so quietly you almost wonder whether anyone else can hear it. You simply stand there, unable to breathe, unable to think. Unable to decide whether any of this is real.

Marco continues as though discussing nothing more significant than changes to the household staff.

"She'll be staying here."

Your lips part but no words come out.

"I expect you to look after her whenever I'm not home."

The sentence hits harder than everything that came before it. It isn't even the fact that another woman is carrying his child that hurts the most. It's the way he says it – as though assigning you another household responsibility.

Water the plants. Pay the electricity. Take care of my pregnant mistress.

Your fingers slowly curl into trembling fists.

"You expect..." your voice nearly breaks. "...me?"

"Yes,” he delivers with no hint of hesitation or shame.

"You'll make sure she eats properly."

His eyes briefly drift toward Lily's stomach.

"She doesn't lift anything heavy."

Another pause.

"If she needs a doctor, call me first."

His gaze returns to you.

"And she doesn't leave the estate alone."

Lily remains frozen beside him, both hands resting protectively over her stomach, while Marco's attention never once leaves you.

"If anything happens to her..."

His dark eyes harden.

"...you'll answer to me."