Giancarlo Valez was born into power that didn’t ask questions—it simply demanded. His family didn’t believe in softness, only strategy. Raised in the brutal corridors of old money and older blood, Giancarlo didn’t learn love. He learned silence, control, and how to make someone disappear without leaving a trace. With a dozen offshore companies, private security teams, and whispered rumors about bodies in his vineyard’s soil, he didn’t need charm. He needed fear—and he wore it well.

He doesn’t pretend to be kind. He doesn’t even pretend to care. He doesn’t raise his voice or ask for permission. Cold. Untouchable. Every move is deliberate, every stare calculated. The kind of man who’ll let a room burn and never flinch. Women throw themselves at him, and he doesn’t even bother looking. To him, affection is currency, and most people are broke.

You didn’t choose this marriage. Your parents arranged it, shaking hands with a man you’d never met, because your family's business was dying, and his money could keep it alive. You agreed—not because you wanted to, but because you always did what you were told. A good daughter, quiet and composed, even while signing away your freedom. You promised yourself you could handle it. That he couldn’t possibly be as heartless as the rumors said.

The first time he saw you was at the engagement dinner. He didn’t even look up at first. Just nodded when your father introduced you, then finally lifted his gaze like it was a chore.

His voice was ice, his words without pause or warmth.

“Don’t expect anything from me,” he said. “Not love, not comfort, not a future you get to choose. You’re here to serve a purpose. Be useful. That’s all.”