I woke disoriented, wrapped in silk sheets that probably cost more than my entire monthly salary at the small art gallery where I worked. Worked. Past. Because now I was Mrs. Moretti, wife of a billionaire, and apparently I didn't need to work.
The morning light streamed through the bedroom curtains, soft and golden. For a blessed moment, I forgot where I was. Then the ring on my finger caught the light, and everything came flooding back.
Married. I was married.
To Dante Moretti.
My phone showed 9:47 a.m. I'd slept for almost twelve hours—emotionally and physically exhausted. There was a text from Dante sent at 6 a.m.:
"I had to leave early for a meeting. Chef prepared breakfast in the greenhouse when it's ready. Marina, the housekeeper, will meet you at 11 a.m. for a tour of the house. Don't feel pressured to wake up early. You deserve to rest. -D"
Gentle. He was being too kind, and it made me nervous. Men weren't like that for no reason. There was always a reason.
I forced myself out of bed and walked into the private bathroom. It was as big as my entire old apartment—a marble tub, a multi-jet shower, double vanity, illuminated mirrors that made you feel like you were in a Hollywood dressing room.
And on the counter, carefully arranged, were all my toiletries. My specific shampoo, my facial moisturizer, even my favorite brand of toothpaste that was only sold at a specific store.
How did he know all this?
I took a long, hot shower, trying to process my new reality. When I emerged, I found the closet already filled. Half with my clothes—transferred from my apartment without my knowledge—and the other half with new ones. Designer dresses, perfectly tailored trousers, silk blouses. Everything was my exact size.
I chose something simple—dark jeans and a cream blouse—refusing to wear the expensive clothes I hadn't chosen. A small rebellion, but mine.
I followed Dante's instructions and looked for the greenhouse. It took fifteen minutes of wandering through the absurd mansion to find it. The "greenhouse" was actually a glass-enclosed conservatory with a retractable roof, tropical plants, a water fountain, and a breakfast table that looked like something out of a magazine.
"Good morning, Mrs. Moretti!" A cheerful voice made me jump.
A woman in her fifties, with gray hair tied in a bun and a warm smile, approached. She wore a discreet but elegant uniform.
"I'm Marina, the housekeeper. It's a pleasure to finally meet you!" she said with genuine enthusiasm. "Mr. Moretti has told us so much about you."
"Did he?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "Oh, yes. He was so excited about the wedding. Nervous too, which was lovely to see." She gestured to the table. "Please, have a seat. Chef Paulo prepared a little bit of everything because Mr. Moretti wasn't sure what you liked in the morning."
I sat down, still processing. Nervous Dante? Hard to imagine the controlled man I knew showing any nervousness.
The table was laden—pancakes, fresh fruit, yogurt, croissants, scrambled eggs, bacon, various juices. Food to feed ten people.
"That's... a lot," I murmured.
"The Chef gets excited." Marina smiled. "But don't feel pressured to eat everything. Just try whatever you like. I'll write down your preferences for the next few days."
She served coffee—perfectly brewed, with just the right amount of milk I liked. Coincidence? Impossible.
"Marina," I began, picking up a croissant, "can I ask you something?"
"Of course, dear." "How long have you worked for Dante?"
"Twelve years." She sat in the chair next to her, clearly comfortable. "Since Mr. Moretti bought this property. He was only twenty, can you believe it? So young, yet already so determined."
"What was he like? Back then?"
Marina looked thoughtful. "Intense. Obsessed with work. He rarely smiled." Her eyes softened. "But he had a good heart. He treated the team with respect, paid generously, remembered birthdays. He just didn't know how to... relax. How to be happy."
"And now?"
"Now?" Marina smiled broadly. "Since he met you, Mrs. Moretti, he's been different. Lighter. He smiles more. Yesterday morning, before the wedding, he was whistling while getting ready. Whistling! In twelve years, I've never heard him do that."
Guilt gripped me. She didn't know it was all a lie. That marriage was a transaction, not love.
"He deserves happiness," Marina continued, paternally. "After everything he went through with his father... well, it's not my story to tell. But you're good for him. I see that."
I didn't know what to say, so I bit into the croissant. It melted in my mouth—buttery, perfect.
"When you're done," Marina stood up, "I'll show you the house properly. It's easy to get lost at first. I was lost for weeks when I started!"
I finished breakfast quickly—I was famished after sleeping so much. Marina gave me a full tour of the mansion, and "mansion" was a ridiculous euphemism.
Twenty bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, a two-story library, a movie theater, a fully equipped gym, a game room, a wine cellar, a professional kitchen, Dante's office, a music room with a grand piano, and even a private art gallery on the third floor.
"Mr. Moretti collects," Marina explained as we walked through the gallery. The walls displayed works I recognized—a Monet, possibly a Renoir, others I couldn't identify but seemed equally valuable. "Art is his secret passion. Few know."
I stopped in front of a smaller painting, less grand than the others. It was a Parisian street scene, impressionist, full of life and movement. Something about it touched me deeply.
"This is my favorite," a voice said behind me.
I turned. Dante stood at the gallery entrance, still in his suit—he had probably just arrived from the meeting. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw me.
"You're back," he said unnecessarily.
"Meeting ended early." He walked closer, stopping beside me to examine the painting. "It's by an unknown artist. I found it at a charity auction five years ago. No one else was interested, but I… I couldn't stop looking at it."
"Why?"
"Because it captures something most people miss." He tilted his head. "See that couple in the corner? Almost hidden in the crowd?"
I looked closer. There was indeed a couple, partially obscured by other pedestrians, but clearly together. Hands intertwined.
"They're surrounded by chaos," Dante continued, his voice softer, "but they have each other. And that's all that matters."
The moment felt too intimate. I cleared my throat. "How was the meeting?"
"Productive." He turned to me, studying my face. "Did you sleep well?"
"Twelve hours." I laughed awkwardly. "I guess I was more tired than I thought."
"Weddings are exhausting." There was something in his tone, something unspoken. "Listen, I know yesterday was... a lot. And today will be our first day actually living together. So I thought we could establish a routine."
"Routine?"
"We have dinner together when possible. Not out of obligation, but because... it helps. Keeping up appearances with the team, but also"—he hesitated—"it would be nice. Having company."
I realized then. He was alone. This huge mansion, all this wealth, and he was completely alone.
"Okay," I agreed. "Dinner together. That works."
He visibly relaxed. "Good. Chef Paulo is making something special tonight. Eight o'clock?"
"Perfect."
An awkward silence fell between us. Dante looked like he wanted to say something more, but his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and frowned.
"I have to take this. I'm working." He was already walking toward the door. "See you at dinner?"
"Yes. Dinner." And then he was gone, leaving me alone in the gallery, surrounded by million-dollar art, feeling more lost than ever.
I spent the rest of the day exploring. The library instantly became my favorite retreat—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a sliding staircase, comfortable reading chairs near a fireplace. I could spend years here without reading everything.
At eight o'clock sharp, I went down to the dining room. It was formal—a long mahogany table, a crystal chandelier, a seating arrangement for two at opposite ends.
Opposite. Meters apart.
Dante was already there, changed into casual clothes—twill pants and a gray sweater that made him look younger, more approachable. He'd been fiddling with his phone, but put it away when he saw me.
"Punctual," he noted, smiling slightly. "I appreciate that."
I sat at the other end of the table. A waiter I didn't know served wine—red, full-bodied.
"This is Marco," Dante introduced. "Our sommelier."
Sommelier. Of course. Because normal mansions had sommeliers.
Dinner was... strange. Excellent—five courses prepared perfectly—but strange. Sitting so far apart, chatting across meters of table, like polite strangers.
"How was the rest of your day?" Dante asked as the second course was served.
"Well. Marina showed me the house. It's... big."
"Very big." He nodded. "I bought it when I was trying something on. Now it's just... empty space."
"Why don't you sell it? Buy something smaller?"
"Because"—he swirled the wine in his glass—"I've dreamed of filling this space. With family, someday. Children's laughter in the hallways. Organized chaos." He laughed humorlessly. "Pathetic, isn't it?"
"No." My voice came out softer than intended. "It's human."
Our eyes met across the distance, and something passed between us. Understanding, perhaps.
Dinner continued with superficial conversation—his work, my old job at the gallery, favorite books. Safe. Distant.
When he finished, Dante stood. "I have to work a few hours at the office. Reports to review."
"Of course. Good night." "Isabella"—he paused in the doorway—"thank you. For today. For trying."
"You're trying too."
He smiled—genuine and a little sad—and left.
I went upstairs, changed, and tried to read. But the words didn't make sense. All I could think about was that long table, that distance between us.
Married, but alone.
It was exactly what I'd agreed to, what I should want.
So why did it hurt so much?
At eleven p.m., I heard footsteps in the next room. Dante returning. The shower started running. It stopped. Silence.
My phone lit up with a message:
"Good night, Isabella. Sleep well. -D"
I glanced at the door separating us. Locked on my side, as he'd promised. Privacy. Respect. Distance.
Exactly what I wanted.
But as I typed the reply—"Good night, Dante. -I"—I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want distance.
I wanted to understand the man on the other side of that door. The lonely collector. The son determined not to be his father. The billionaire who whistled when he was happy.
I wanted to know who Dante Moretti really was.
And I had eleven months and twenty-six days to find out.
If I didn't lose my heart in the process.