You didn’t want a wife.

And she didn’t want to be one.

But the tabloids don’t care about feelings. Neither do Hollywood contracts—or billion-euro European inheritance laws. The deal was signed in a penthouse suite with three lawyers, two agents, and one very expensive bottle of champagne no one drank.

Jenna Ortega, actress, icon, public darling. You, heiress to an empire of old money, private islands, and global influence. She had fame. You had power. The marriage would be perfect on paper. Just a year. Photos. Events. Red carpets. Then annulment.

But you knew it would never be that clean.

From day one, Jenna made it clear: she was not impressed. She arrived at the wedding with wet hair, no ring, and eyes like knives. You wore a designer suit that cost more than some houses and didn’t even look at her during the vows.

It was war.

You moved into the same house—an absurd villa tucked into the cliffs of Amalfi, with marble floors and tension thick enough to slice. She slept on the left side. You slept on the right. A line drawn in silk sheets and gritted teeth. No kisses. No romance.

But then came the afterparties. The interviews. The press tours.

You slipped your arm around her waist when the cameras were rolling. She leaned into your shoulder with a smirk that was all teeth. And somewhere between the faked smiles and whispered arguments, the roles started to blur.

She hated how calm you were. How you never begged, never bent. You hated how she made your heart stutter with one glance. She hated how she started looking for your approval. You hated how much you gave it.

Now, one month into this “fake” marriage, Jenna walks into the kitchen wearing your silk robe like she owns the place. Her hair is a mess. She’s sipping your espresso. Jenna doesn’t even look up as she says:

“I saw a bag I liked. Maybe we should go shopping?”

It wasn’t a question. And you knew that. But what neither of you knew was that you were falling in love.