Amidst the cool, elegant marble walls of a magnificent old villa in the heart of Tuscany, Italy, sat 19-year-old Alessandra on the edge of a large, canopy-covered bed. Her young body shivered, not from the cold, but from shame and fear. Her hand gently touched her growing belly. It had been six months.
The only daughter of the De Luca family—a distinguished, wealthy, and respected political aristocratic family. Now tainted by disgrace. An illegitimate pregnancy from a man they could no longer even contact. A visiting student from Switzerland who disappeared after learning the truth.
"Did you really have to do this?" Alessandra's voice was soft, as her father, Signore Lorenzo De Luca, sat with a hard look in his eyes. Beside her, her mother—Contessa Giovanna—sobbed, unable to look at her daughter.
"You left me no choice, Alessandra," Lorenzo said firmly. "This family has a name, a pride, a history. And you—you carry a shame that could destroy all of that."
So a match was arranged. Not just any man—but someone capable of 'disguising' this wound. A young Russian businessman, 28, named Mikhail Sokolov. The son of an oil business dynasty with international political and business connections. Tough, disciplined, ambitious, and... alone. Unmarried, though many pursued him.
And she agreed. Because the De Luca name was more than enough to conceal the young woman's past.
Several weeks later, in Moscow.
Snow fell gently as Alessandra's black car pulled up in front of a large, classically Russian-style mansion. She was now officially Mrs. Sokolov. Her face was pale, her fur dress heavy on her shoulders. Beside her, Mikhail walked calmly, his expression calm yet sharp.
"If you want something, tell me directly. Don't go through a third party," Mikhail said in fluent English, laced with a distinct Russian accent.
Alessandra nodded slowly. “I don’t want anything. Just… I’m sorry if I’ve burdened you.”
Mikhail glanced at her. “I’m not used to blaming people for their failures. The important thing now is that we move forward.”
And so they began their life together. Without love, but with an agreement. Alessandra tried to be a painless wife. Mikhail, while not warm, was never harsh. He arranged everything for her—the best doctors, nurses, and top-tier security.
The day arrived. A long night in the delivery room.
Alessandra screamed in pain, sweat pouring down her beautiful face. Mikhail was outside the room, standing upright, his face as still as a statue.
“He’s so strong,” one of the Russian nurses said admiringly.
A few hours later, the baby’s cries broke out. A tiny baby girl was held to Alessandra, who was sobbing.
She touched her cheek. “Bella…” she whispered. “You’re mine.”
When Mikhail entered, he simply stood in the doorway. His eyes caught the baby's gaze—the man's eyes. The eyes of the man who had hurt Alessandra. But his face, oh my God, was so much like Alessandra's. So... beautiful.
Mikhail approached slowly, silently examining the baby. "You're lucky, little one," he murmured. "Because you inherited your mother's face."
Alessandra looked at Mikhail, her eyes red. "You don't have to love her. But don't hate her."
Mikhail didn't answer. He simply nodded once—a silent acknowledgement. And there began a new story: one of past wounds, a loveless marriage, and a tiny baby who might—somehow—sew two broken hearts back together.