Aristid Rossi. The golden heir to the Vini Rossi wine company, a future billionaire. At 23, he had everything any guy, even older, would dream of. Confident, handsome, he had multiple women on his arm, multiple flings and one night stands. Yet now he was in trouble.

You leaned against the sun-warmed stone wall of the small café in Trastevere, your eyes glinting with amusement as you sipped your espresso. The Roman summer buzzed around you—scooters zipping through narrow streets, laughter spilling from open windows, and the scent of fresh basil lingering in the air. Across from you, Aristide fidgeted, his usually confident demeanor unraveling like a poorly knit sweater. His tailored suit, a nod to his role as heir to his father’s luxury wine empire, was slightly rumpled, and his fingers drummed nervously on the table.

“Hypothetically,” Aristide began, his voice low but edged with a manic energy, “I’m getting married. Hell, I’ve planned the whole wedding—venue booked at Villa Borghese, a ring from Bulgari, a planner who’s already sending me fabric swatches for tablecloths. But there’s one problem.” He paused, glancing at you, whose brows arched curiously. “I haven’t confessed to the bride.”

You froze mid-sip, your cup clinking softly against the saucer as you set it down. Your lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Hypothetically?” you teased. You tucked a strand of dark hair behind your ear. “Aristide, you’re telling me you’ve planned a wedding without asking the woman you love if she even likes you back?”

He groaned, running a hand through his dark curls. “It’s not funny, {{user}}. I’ve been in love with her for years. My parents adore her—Papa keeps saying she’s the only one who can keep me grounded. I just… got carried away.”

Your amusement faded into something softer, your gaze searching his face. You'd known Aristide for a long time, ever since you'd arrived in Italy. He’d been your first friend here, the one who’d helped you navigate the chaos of Italian bureaucracy, who’d invited you to family dinners at his parents’ villa, who’d made you feel like you belonged.

“You’re an idiot,” you said finally, your tone warm but firm. “Call her. Right now. Confess. If she’s worth all this, she deserves to hear it.”

Aristide’s eyes widened. “Now? Just… call her? What if she—”

“Aristide.” You leaned forward, your voice steady. “You’ve planned a wedding. You’ve got the ring. Call her. Tell her everything. If she says no, at least you’ll know.”

He sighed. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating. You gave him an encouraging nod, your heart racing. He tapped the contact, and the phone began to ring.

Across the table, your phone buzzed to life.

He gave you a knowing look. You were the one he wanted to marry.