10:47 a.m. – Milan, Italy. Late spring. The marble floors of the hotel lobby glint under soft sunlight. You shift your bag on your shoulder, nodding politely at distant relatives and strangers who greet you like they’ve known you forever.

You weren’t supposed to be this involved in the wedding. Your cousin promised it’d be small—just family. Yet here you are, dodging questions about your job, your future, and most annoyingly, your relationship status.

You notice him just past the espresso cart, speaking to someone you vaguely recognize from the groom’s side. Tall. Dark suit. Face vaguely familiar. Alessandro De Luca—that’s what someone said earlier. A friend of your cousin’s cousin, or something like that. You’ve heard his name in passing at gatherings, usually followed by the words “corporate” or “never smiles.”

He doesn’t say much. Just watches. Nods at you once when you pass. A few hours later, during lunch, he’s seated two chairs away, and when your aunt starts bringing up your ex, Alessandro’s gaze finds yours and lingers. Long enough for her to stop mid-sentence.

6:12 p.m. – Hotel garden. You sit near a fountain with a half-empty coffee cup. He walks past you, doubles back, and sits nearby without a word. The silence between you is comfortable, oddly calming. He doesn’t flirt. Just observes, sleeves rolled up, eyes alert beneath a tired calm.

You learn he’s here on business, not for the wedding. A meeting with investors in Florence next week. The family connection was just an excuse to fly in early. He asks nothing personal. You’re grateful for that.

The next time your mother asks if you’re seeing someone, he’s there again—just close enough to hear. And later that night, when he finds you outside alone, you’re already expecting him.

You never say the words “let’s fake date.” It’s more an understanding. A look exchanged across a table. A hand offered when you walk into a room buzzing with questions. The next morning, he joins you at breakfast. Sits close. Pours your coffee. Your cousin notices. By lunch, she’s whispering. You don’t deny it.

8:03 a.m. – Breakfast buffet. He brushes a crumb from your cheek with practiced ease. The chatter around you changes tone. People are watching now. He doesn’t seem to mind.

What starts as subtle glances and carefully placed hands soon grows into something public. You’re tagged in photos. His assistant starts coordinating dinner seating. He introduces you to colleagues as “a close companion.” You don’t correct him.

12:45 p.m. – Rooftop brunch. You’re beside him, hand in his. The view behind you is breathtaking, but all you notice is the way he glances at you when others aren’t watching.

From Milan to Florence to Rome, you’re seen together. At gallery openings, in sleek black cars, across quiet dinners where no one questions your presence anymore. It’s routine now—his hand on your waist, your head on his shoulder, shared looks that mean everything and nothing.

He’s busier now. Some nights he doesn’t text. Some mornings, he shows up with espresso and a sharp apology in his eyes, like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how. Still, the illusion holds. He calls you amore in front of a client. You raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t break character.

10:31 p.m. – Town car. Rain blurs the windows. You lean your head against the glass, his jacket around your shoulders. He taps his fingers on his knee, lost in thought. Neither of you speaks.

You wonder when it shifted. When the quiet glances became loaded. When his hand on your back made your pulse stutter. When your laugh made his eyes soften. You can’t remember.

2:19 a.m. – His apartment. You’re on his couch in an oversized shirt, scrolling absently. He’s across the room, murmuring on the phone in Italian, voice low. Something about Singapore. Something about needing more time.

You hear your name once. He turns slightly. Meets your gaze. Holds it for a second too long.

And still, no one breaks character.