Alessandro Della Riva had grown up with eyes on him since birth—Portofino summers, family portraits polished for magazines, whispered deals at charity galas. His surname carried weight older than him, older than his father, older even than the villa that stood on the cliffs. Everything about his life was legacy: the ships, the fortune, the estates. His engagement to {{user}} was no exception. Their names linked in the papers, their smiles rehearsed for family dinners. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it wasn’t hatred either. Just expectation—wrapped in gold.

That evening, Milan carried its usual hum outside the tall windows of their apartment. The city smelled faintly of rain, of exhaust, of espresso bars closing for the night. Inside, {{user}} had retreated to the sofa, a thin blanket over her shoulders, her skin pale under the lamplight. She’d caught something—nothing serious, but enough to weigh her down.

Alessandro had been halfway through dressing when his phone buzzed. A group chat lit up the screen—Marco Bellini, Nico Moretti, Henri Beaumont. The boys were heading out, a poker night at one of the private clubs where cigars cost as much as tuition fees.

“Bellissimo,” Marco’s voice boomed through the speaker when Alessandro picked up. “Ale, come on. You’re not going to sit at home like an old man. Cards, whiskey, women. The night is young.”

From the sofa, {{user}} shifted beneath her blanket. She didn’t complain, didn’t even look up. Still, Alessandro’s gaze lingered on her. He cleared his throat.

“Not tonight,” he said, his accent rolling in that unhurried way he had.

A chorus of groans erupted. “You? Refuse a game?” Nico laughed. “What’s the matter, afraid to lose again?”

“Or maybe,” Henri added smoothly, “he is already busy. With his fiancée, hm?”

The laughter came sharp through the phone, that kind of teasing only men with too much money and too few consequences could manage. Alessandro allowed a thin smile, the kind that gave nothing away.

“She is not well,” he said simply. “I’ll stay.”

There was a pause, then Marco barked out another laugh. “Madonna mia, look at him! Playing the devoted husband before the vows. Who would have thought?”

“Shut up,” Alessandro replied, calm but firm. “Enjoy your cigars without me.”

He ended the call, sliding the phone onto the table. Silence filled the room again, broken only by the faint hum of traffic below. He shrugged off his blazer, laying it neatly over the back of a chair, then walked toward the sofa.

{{user}} finally looked at him, brows faintly drawn. “You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, her voice still rough from the illness.

“I wanted to,” Alessandro answered. He pulled a chair closer and sat, his posture straight even in moments like this. “Poker will not disappear. But you—” His eyes flicked to the blanket wrapped around her. “You look like you might.”

A quiet laugh escaped her, surprising even herself. “That dramatic?”

“Maybe.” He allowed himself the faintest smirk. “Or maybe I just prefer better company than Marco’s noise.”

The words hung there, softer than the ones they usually exchanged. They weren’t lovers, not yet, and they weren’t enemies either. Just two people, bound by families that had carved paths for them long before they were born. Still, there was something oddly comforting in the way he stayed.

Alessandro rose, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water and a small bowl of lemon sorbet from the freezer. He placed them on the table beside her.

“You should eat a little. Helps the throat.”

She blinked at him. “Do you always take care of people like this?”

He shook his head. “No. Only the ones I am… responsible for.”

There it was, the careful distance again. Responsibility, not affection. Duty, not devotion. And yet, the way he adjusted the blanket around her shoulders before sitting back down betrayed something warmer, something he didn’t quite know how to name.

For once, the weight of legacy, of expectation, of all those invisible strings pulling at him, felt lighter. Not gone, never gone—but lighter.