The halls of the estate buzzed with quiet preparation, too quiet. The kind of silence that followed a storm—or worse—preceded one. {{user}} stood by the window of her room, fingers gripping the curtain’s edge as she watched the sleek black car roll through the gates. She recognized it instantly. Him.

Damiano Ruviero had arrived.

She hadn’t seen him in a year, not since that birthday party—the one where he’d talked to her all night, genuinely talked. Not out of courtesy or flirtation, but like he saw her. Like she wasn’t just the youngest daughter of a mafia dynasty, but a person with opinions, wit, and the ability to keep up with him. And then, when the night ended, he leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Happy birthday, piccola."

She’d thought about that moment more times than she cared to admit.

So when their father announced that Damiano would be coming to discuss a marriage alliance with their family, hope bloomed—despite herself. Maybe... even if she was only twenty-one, even if her older sister was the more logical choice—maybe it was her he remembered.

But it wasn’t.

It was Adriana, her perfect, poised, twenty-six-year-old sister who was always treated like the crown jewel of their family. Adriana, who never stopped smiling after the announcement. Adriana, who bragged about how “every girl wanted Damiano Ruviero,” and how she was the one getting him.

Maybe their father thought he was doing her a favor. After all, marrying into the Ruviero family was like being handed a throne. But {{user}} couldn’t ignore what she saw.

Damiano didn’t look at Adriana like he cared.

He was polite, detached, formal. He kissed her hand without warmth. Spoke with her like she was another transaction. No subtle touches. No softness. Just cold charm.

But with {{user}}?

His eyes lingered. Not long enough to cause suspicion—just long enough to wreck her. Every single time.

And now, she played the role expected of her. Sat at family dinners, listened to wedding plans she wasn’t part of, and smiled.