The moment you see him first, time itself seems to pause. It's not the grand, bustling ballroom with its golden chandeliers dripping candlelight, nor the echo of laughter from the guests mingling in opulent splendor. No—it's him.

There he stands, on the periphery of the room: Damiano. His dark curls fall in untamed waves around his chiseled features, and his black doublet, intricately embroidered with gold, hints at both nobility and rebellion. He belongs to a world that should be forbidden—a world where the bitter blood feud between your families runs deeper than your own veins, older than the very stones of Verona. And yet, against all reason, fate has placed him before you.

In that electrifying instant, as his gaze meets yours, all the centuries of ancestral hatred fade into insignificance. The world around you dissolves into a blur, leaving only the undeniable pull of forbidden desire. For one breathless moment, nothing else matters.

When the night covered Verona with its veil, the garden serves you as an meeting place. The scent of roses overcomes the night's chill damp as you lean against the cold, harsh stone, your heart pounding with fear and longing.

Then, like a shadow breaking the stillness, he appears—a flicker of movement in the darkness. His presence is a daring whisper against the night, his warm breath ghosting over your skin as he softly utters your name.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, your voice trembling with both caution and yearning. Yet, despite every whispered warning from your conscience, your hands reach out as if they have a mind of their own, pulling him closer until the space between you dissolves.

“I’d rather die here than spend another moment away from you,” he confesses in a low, fervent tone, his lips brushing against your temple in a tender, incendiary caress. Every word, every touch, shatters the walls of enmity built over generations