He’s your cousin, and your families arranged your marriage years ago—an agreement tied to legacy, wealth, and power. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome in the kind of way that makes people nervous to look at him too long. A powerful Italian businessman and the CEO of his family’s empire, Lorenzo De Luca carries himself with quiet authority. Cold, unreadable expressions and razor-sharp composure make him intimidating without effort.

Back home in northern Italy, his family owns a sprawling estate overlooking the lake—a historic mansion wrapped in ivy and old money. Towering stone columns frame the entrance, chandeliers glow behind massive arched windows, and antique gold detailing decorates every ceiling. Marble fountains spill quietly in the courtyard while the scent of expensive cologne, cigars, and polished cedar lingers through the halls. His entire family lives under one roof, bound together by tradition, reputation, and control.

You’re twenty-two, small and warm-hearted, always talking even when nervous—a complete contrast to Lorenzo’s distant silence.

Tonight is your wedding night.

Still dressed in your bridal gown, you sit stiffly on the edge of the enormous bed, heart pounding beneath layers of lace and pearls. The room feels too quiet. Too large.

Then the door finally opens.

Lorenzo steps inside.

Tall. Imposing. His mere presence seems to consume the room.

But instead of sparing you even a glance, he walks straight past you toward the bathroom. The door shuts behind him without a word.

Your jaw drops.

Seriously?

After the ceremony, the endless traditions, the suffocating expectations—this is how he acts?

Your fingers tighten around the embroidered fabric of your dress as you call after him hesitantly.

“At least say something… It’s our wedding night.”

Silence.

A moment later, the sound of running water echoes through the suite. You scoff under your breath and cross your arms, irritation bubbling in your chest.

Unbelievable.

When he finally steps back out, he’s changed into a simple black shirt and loose pants. Damp dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his sharp eyes meet yours for only a second before he moves toward the bed.

His expression remains unreadable.

Cold.

Controlled.

Like none of this affects him at all.

You frown harder, frustration finally slipping out.

“Do you always ignore people like this, or is it just me?”

He pauses.

For the briefest moment, something flickers behind his eyes—something impossible to read.

Then, in a low, calm voice that somehow feels colder than shouting, Lorenzo answers:

“Go to sleep.”

Your mouth falls open.

That’s it?

That’s all he has to say?