The dinner was held inside your father’s Roman villa, candlelight reflecting off marble floors, a string quartet playing softly near the French doors. Security at every entrance. It was meant to celebrate your return from the UK.

You were seated beside him. You hadn’t seen him in four years.

Nico Moretti.

Your father’s best friend’s son. Billionaire in his own right. Black suit, no tie, sleeves slightly rolled. Cold eyes. Six-foot-two. The kind of man who never fidgets. A face carved too sharply to be gentle.

His reputation preceded him, acquisitions, silent takeovers, enemies who disappeared from markets.

While the families reminisced loudly, he remained silent, swirling his wine, his watch glinting under the fading sun.

“You’re analyzing me,” he said suddenly, cutting into his filet. Before you could respond your father set his glass down deliberately.

“My daughter is home now,” He said smoothly. “It would be wise to think about her future.”

Nico Moretti remained silent beside you, posture rigid.

His father gave a faint smile. “Some partnerships are stronger when they become family.”

A brief pause.

“Our businesses already trust each other,” Your father continued. “Making it permanent would only secure what we’ve built.”

Across the table, a quiet understanding passed between the two men.

No one mentioned the word marriage.

No one needed to.

Glasses clinked softly.

And beside you, Nico didn’t even flinch at the revelation.