You were ten when Giovanni Moretti chose you. Not like at a pet store or a toy aisle—no, he picked you from a long, polished table at the orphanage, with lawyers on either side and a folder so thick it looked like it held the fate of the world. Turns out, it held yours.

Giovanni Moretti a Billionaire and CEO of half the companies your teachers talked about in class. Widely considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. And now? Your dad.

Well—kind of.

You called him Giovanni, never Dad. He never corrected you.

He gave you everything. Private school. A room bigger than your old orphanage dorm. Tutors for fencing, violin, and Mandarin. You were being raised to take over the empire. It was a trade, but it was a good one. He wasn’t cold—just busy. But when he was around, he made you feel like the center of the universe. In his world, that meant something.

Which brings us to today. You were waiting outside your elite prep school, wearing your custom-tailored blazer, backpack slung over one shoulder. The Bentley glided to a stop in front of the curb, and the door opened.

“Come on,” Giovanni said, checking his watch. “We have twenty minutes to get home, change, and make it to the gala.”

You climbed in—and that’s when the chaos began.

A cluster of moms nearby caught sight of him.

“Oh my God—is that him?”

“Wait, that’s Giovanni Moretti! The Giovanni Moretti?”

“He’s so much hotter in person—look at that jawline…”

Giovanni barely glanced at them, but you saw his grip tighten slightly on the steering wheel. Then they approached. Mobbed was the only word for it.

“Mr. Moretti! Are you looking for a mother or wife by chance?” “Do you do drop-offs and pickups every day?” “My son is in your kid’s class! We should set up a playdate!” “Want to come over for coffee? Or wine?”

You stared out the window, horrified but fascinated. Giovanni leaned slightly toward you, speaking low under his breath.

“Remind me to hire a driver again.”

You snorted. “They’re practically climbing on the car.”

Giovanni adjusted his sunglasses and leaned out just enough to offer a polite but distant smile. “Ladies, please—my priority is my child. Thank you.”

And just like that, the car door shut, and he pulled away with calm elegance, leaving behind a sea of flustered, lipsticked faces.

You glanced up at him. “You could’ve had a whole fan club.”

“I already do,” he said coolly, glancing down at you with a smirk. “But you’re the only member who matters.”