The first time he saw her, she was bathed in soft, celestial light.

The planetarium was nearly empty, save for a few scattered visitors lost in the cosmic illusion above them. The domed ceiling shimmered with constellations, the Milky Way stretching infinitely across the darkness. But for him, there was only one star in the room.

{{user}} stood in the center, her neck craned upward, silver-white light kissing her delicate features. Her midnight hair was swept into a bun, a few rebellious strands escaping. She had the posture of a dancer—graceful, poised, as if she could lift onto her toes and float among the stars.

Lorenzo Accardi leaned against the railing, watching. Observing. Calculating.

So, this is the woman I’m supposed to marry.

He had expected... someone different. A vapid socialite. A desperate heiress. Not this—this angel with moonlight in her eyes and something untouchable woven into her presence.

She turned then, as if sensing him, her gaze locking onto his. Wide, wary. Curious. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“Angel.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

He stepped closer, letting the low glow highlight the sharp edges of his face. “You must be Ms. {{user}}.”

His reputation preceded him. It always did. Capo of the Accardi famiglia. A man whispered about in dark corners. Ruthless. Cunning. A storm dressed in a tailored suit.

“Formalities are important,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, laced with something darker. “I need to know who I’m marrying, after all.”