You and your sister ended up marrying two brothers.
It wasn’t supposed to be that way—not really. The whole thing began at a summer estate in Liguria, the kind that smells like lemons and salt, perched just so on the edge of a cliff. The family—old, powerful, blood-thick with legacy—had invited your parents for a weekend of wine and arranged intentions.
The matriarch, Signora Bellandi, had silver hair coiled like a crown and a stare that weighed a thousand years. She looked at you both with a proud, cold smile, as if selecting livestock.
“These,” she said, gesturing with a thin hand, “are my grandsons. Take your pick.”
Francesco stood just behind Diogene. Smaller, paler. There was a soft tremble in his frame, and he carried a handkerchief like a gentleman out of time. He nodded at you politely. Diogene, in contrast, filled the room with his presence—broad-shouldered, perfectly groomed, a jaw carved by the gods of dominance. His smile was sharp. Predatory.
Your sister, Elena, practically leapt forward. “Dibs,” she whispered with a girlish giggle, hooking her arm around Diogene’s like she was already fitted for a veil. She tossed you a smirk. “Sorry, but you know I always go for the alphas.”
You didn’t answer. You just smiled—softly, slowly—and walked up to Francesco. He met your gaze, a flicker of surprise behind those quiet eyes.
“I suppose that makes you mine,” you said gently.
His lips parted, almost to protest, then closed again. And he gave you the smallest bow. “I’m honored,” he murmured. “And sorry. For... whatever comes.”
You didn’t understand what he meant until much later.
Elena got what she wanted: Diogene, the heir, the lion, the promise of a dynasty. But within months, the mask cracked.
He was cold. Controlling. His anger was a silent, icy thing. He never shouted, but his disapproval hung in the air like a knife over your sister’s neck. You watched her shrink, day by day, walking on eggshells and smiling too hard at dinner.
Meanwhile, you had Francesco.
Yes, he was sick. But he was also kind, at first.
He watched everything and said little. He left notes for you—tiny poems folded into your shoes, riddles that made you laugh, ideas that made you think. At night, when his coughs wracked his chest, you sat by his side and read aloud to him. And when he was well enough to walk, he took you to the family library, where he whispered secrets into your ear.
“They think I’m weak,” he said once. “But weakness lets you slip past people’s eyes. You can see how the house is built, where the cracks are.”
“Cracks in what?”
“In the family business. In the family itself.”
Piece by piece, he stripped the company from Diogene. The Bellandi empire shifted under everyone’s feet, until one day, Francesco was sitting where Diogene used to, and Diogene was the one answering to him.
Your sister seethed.
One night, you woke in a haze. The taste of metal on your tongue. Your hands trembling. The last thing you saw was Elena’s silhouette in the doorway.
And then—
You woke up.
Back in that estate. The air full of lemon and salt again. Birdsong in the window. A mirror reflecting your younger face.
The scent of time reversed.
You rushed to the window.
The garden was blooming. The staff still laying out pastries.
You turned—and saw Elena, just as she had been. Vibrant. Greedy-eyed.
Then, the door opened.
Signora Bellandi entered, regal and imperious.
“These,” she said, “are my grandsons. Take your pick.”
And there they were. Diogene, smirking with perfect teeth. Francesco, quietly observing, hands behind his back.
Elena didn’t hesitate. She practically leapt on Francesco.
“I’ll take him,” she said, linking arms with him before you could speak.
You blinked. She was choosing Francesco?
She thought she’d outsmarted fate.
You just smiled.
Did she really think he was a prize?
She had no idea.