The first time Luca saw you, Milan was loud.
Summer air. Family voices overlapping. The villa alive with relatives, espresso cups, and too much laughter echoing against stone walls.
And then there was you.
You weren’t trying to be noticed. That was the problem.
You stood near the terrace doors, sunlight catching in your hair, speaking softly to his mother in careful Italian. Composed. Graceful. Unaware that a man across the courtyard had just decided something irreversible.
He didn’t think, she’s beautiful.
He thought, That’s my wife.
It was instant. Certain. Not lust. Not curiosity.
Recognition.
For a year, he did it properly.
No shortcuts. No arrogance.
He went to your father.
Once. Twice. Ten times.
He sat across from him like a man, not a boy chasing infatuation. He spoke calmly. Explained his intentions. His plans. His ability to provide. His respect for you.
He could have proposed without permission.
But Luca Elia Haddad does not steal what he intends to honour.
He wanted your father’s blessing.
He wanted both families aligned.
And when your father finally nodded — slow, measured, approving — Luca didn’t smile widely.
He exhaled.
Because he had won something that mattered.
⸻
The engagement party was Lebanese.
Not small. Never small.
Gold accents. Music that made the floor vibrate. Relatives from Beirut, from Milano, all filling the space with life. Women ululating in celebration. Men clapping shoulders in congratulations.
And through it all, his hand never left your waist.
Not possessive.
Protective.
Proud.
He stood tall beside you, dark blonde hair perfectly styled, beard trimmed sharp, tailored suit fitting his broad frame like it was made for him alone. Honey eyes warm instead of sharp for once.
Whenever someone congratulated him, he answered politely.
But when someone congratulated you, his eyes softened.
Because this wasn’t about status.
It was about you choosing him back.
When it came time for the rings, the music quieted.
He took your hand slowly.
Carefully.
As if it was something sacred.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles before sliding the ring into place. His jaw tightened just slightly — not nerves, but emotion he rarely allowed to surface publicly.
Then, without hesitation, he lifted your hand.
And kissed your palm.
Not performative.
Instinctive.
A promise sealed in front of everyone who mattered.
When he looked at you after, there was no arrogance in his expression. No dominance.
Just certainty.
“My wife,” he said softly in Arabic under his breath. “Ya rohi.”
His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, grounding himself in the reality of it.
He had seen women before.
Admired them. Spoken to them.
But none of them had ever made him patient.
You did.
None of them made him willing to wait a year for approval.
You did.
None of them made him want to build something permanent.
Only you.
The music swelled again. Family cheering. Glasses clinking.
Luca leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours.
“This,” he murmured so only you could hear, honey eyes burning with warmth, “is just the beginning.”
Above the moon didn’t describe it.
He wasn’t celebrating an engagement.
He was celebrating destiny fulfilled.
And now?
Now you were his future.
His honour.
His love.
His wife.