Alessio Moretti stared out the car window, jaw tight, one hand resting on his knee as the driver pulled up in front of the Moretti estate.
The structure remained unchanged—still a monolith of glass, steel, and stone. To the outside world, it looked like the dream home of thousands. But to him, it felt like a nightmare carved in luxury.
He stepped out in his crisp black suit and leather shoes, hoping—foolishly—that this time might be different. That perhaps his father had summoned him for something more trivial than yet another round of condemnation.
The late-afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off cold glass sculptures and razor-sharp steel furnishings—every inch of his father's territory a reminder of control, precision, and unrelenting power.
This mansion was supposed to be a home, a place of warmth. But since the death of his mother, it had become little more than a prison of bitterness and ice.
Ricardo, the family butler for over thirty years, bowed stiffly as Alessio passed."He's waiting in the study," Ricardo said, his eyes flickering with sympathy Alessio refused to acknowledge. Ricardo had been more of a father than Vittorio Moretti ever was.
The sound of Alessio's leather soles against marble echoed like gunshots down the vast, sterile hallway—cold and endless, much like his father's heart.
He paused outside the double mahogany doors and drew a steadying breath.Vittorio Moretti was the only man he had ever feared… and respected. How he managed to feel both emotions toward one person was a mystery even he hadn't solved.
His father's silver hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. He looked up from behind his grand desk, flanked by bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes no one had read in decades—props for a man that prefers power to knowledge."
You're late," Vittorio said flatly.
"You're old," Alessio replied smoothly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.
Vittorio's eyes snapped up. Cold, calculating, almost amused.
"And yet," he murmured, "I still hold everything you want."
Alessio walked to the side table and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter. The amber liquid caught the light, swirling like fire. He didn't drink it. Not yet.
"Why exactly did you call me here?"
His father leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"You need a wife."
Alessio's brow twitched.
"No, I don't."
"You're twenty-seven. In five months, you'll be twenty-eight. And still, no wife. No heir."
"I have an empire. Loyalty. More power in a single signature than most men gain in a lifetime."
"And yet," Vittorio said with quiet menace, "you have no legacy. The other families? They tolerate you. For now. But a king without a queen is a vulnerable king. A weak king."
Alessio's jaw clenched. He took a slow sip, stalling.
"The board is restless," Vittorio continued. "They wonder if you can manage a multi billion dollar company if you can't even manage your personal life."
"I'm not you," Alessio said coldly. "I don't need a parade and a wife to validate my power."
"No. You're not me," Vittorio sneered. "You're weaker."
It was always the same game, the same wound. His father knew exactly where to cut—and he never missed.
"But let me make this clear," Vittorio said, voice dropping. "You marry before your twenty-eighth birthday… or I revoke your inheritance. The name. The company. The estate. Everything."
Alessio went still.
A frigid silence settled over the room.
"What clause?" he asked quietly.
"The one I added to my will last year. Ironclad. Legal. Unbreakable."
"You're joking."
Vittorio stood and walked toward the window.
"Serious as death," he replied.
Alessio's fists clenched.
"You can't force me into marriage."
"No," Vittorio said. "You have a choice. Marry… or walk away from everything."
"This is manipulation."
"No, son. It's called power. And I'm offering you a choice. Pick the one you're most comfortable with."
Alessio stared at him, breathing hard."This will be unfair to the girl," he said at last, voice tight. "You know… my condition."
Vittorio's gaze narrowed.
"Then choose wisely. Set terms. Draft a contract. I don't care if it's love, business, or convenience. Just find a bride."
The ache in Alessio's chest pulsed—ancient, aching, deeper than blood. His illness defied diagnosis. It was not just physical. It was… other.
"I pick the girl," he said finally.
"Of course," Vittorio replied with a smirk.
"But remember—you only have five months."
As Alessio turned and stormed out, the warmth drained from his limbs. Pain bloomed in his chest like fire beneath the skin. He pressed a hand to his ribs as his heartbeat stuttered—too fast.
Too erratic.
Not now.
He needed more time.
He needed a wife.