October in Milan. Sunlight pierced the towering stained-glass windows of the Church of San Babila, transforming the entire nave into a mosaic of shifting light and shadow. The air hung heavy with the scent of three thousand Ecuadorian 'Ice Queen' white roses, flown in overnight, mingling with the ancient odor of incense and expensive perfumes—a peculiar yet harmonious collusion of money and piety within Italy's historic sanctuary.
Elisa Rossi stood in the vestry beside the altar, inspecting her reflection one final time.
Her wedding gown, a six-month labor of love from the Valentino atelier, was crafted from fifty meters of ivory silk taffeta, the train embroidered with silver thread depicting the Ross family rose crest. The jewelry was the Ross family heirloom diamond necklace "loaned" by her mother, Sofia—a seventy-five-carat pear-shaped central stone casting cold fire below her collarbones.
"Do I look like a sacrificial offering?" she murmured to her assistant, Anna, standing behind her, the words echoing softly in the empty room.
Anna didn't answer, merely adjusted the edge of Elisa's veil. Her assistant of seven years understood better than anyone that every stitch, every flower, every ray of light today was a meticulously designed stage set. And the leading lady was about to perform the most critical act of her life.
Outside, the pipe organ's low test notes hummed—Bach's *Toccata and Fugue in D minor*. Elisa's fingers unconsciously tightened. Four days ago in the San Gimignano library, Lorenzo's fingers had tapped the stone table with that same precise rhythm, perfectly matching the fugue's counterpoint.
"They're here," Anna glanced at her phone. "The Costa family entered through the side door, placed in the third row on the right as instructed. The camera crew is in position. Media are being held outside."
"And my mother?"
"Signora Sofia and Herr Müller are at the main entrance giving a brief interview to *Corriere della Sera*." Anna paused. "Herr Müller mentioned 'a new chapter for the Ross family embracing diverse values.' Signora Sofia added, 'Love always transcends class boundaries.'"
A cold smile touched Elisa's lips. Such appropriate lines, wrapped around such biting mockery.
She moved to the door, peering through the crack into the nave.
Guests were nearly all seated. To the left was the Ross family's world: Uncle Marco, his beer belly prominent, chuckled quietly with some cousins, his eyes flicking toward the altar with unconcealed, gleeful anticipation. Stepfather Karl Müller, in expensive Tom Ford, elegantly shook hands with some banker as if *he* were the star of the day. Her half-brother, Massimo, the eighteen-year-old playboy, scrolled through his phone, indifferent to it all.
And at the center of the family section sat her grandfather, Vittorio Rossi. The eighty-two-year-old wore a flawlessly tailored dark grey suit, his silver hair immaculate, a cane resting against his leg. He gazed forward impassively, a marble statue weathered by too many centuries, his thoughts inscrutable.
Her father, Andrea, sat beside his father, in a slightly dated brown suit, his tie slightly askew. He was leaning slightly, peering curiously over several rows to the third row on the right—where the Costa family sat. Elisa saw his eyes brighten, the look of a scholar discovering an intriguing subject.
Then she saw them.
The Costa family huddled on the pew in the third row, right side, like sparrows who had strayed into a swan lake. Gianluigi Costa wore a new but unmistakably off-the-rack navy suit, the shoulders cut too tight, making his broad frame look constrained. He sat ramrod straight, his large hands gripping his knees, knuckles white. Maria Costa wore a simple maroon dress, her hair carefully pinned up, a thin gold chain around her neck—likely her best piece. She clutched a well-worn rosary, lips moving silently.
Their daughter, Sofia Costa (sharing a name with Elisa's mother, but a completely different being), a girl of maybe eighteen or nineteen with traces of acne, gazed around wide-eyed, her undisguised awe for everything—the soaring vaults, stained glass, gilded altar—palpable. The younger son, Giulio, about sixteen, sat stiffly like a little soldier but kept craning his neck to see the pipe organ behind them.
They looked… so *real*. So real they seemed to clash with the precisely calculated setting.
And standing before the altar, waiting, Lorenzo Costa was the strangest fusion of this reality and theater.
He wore a Giorgio Armani tuxedo, impeccably tailored, accentuating his already tall, straight frame. His dark brown hair was carefully styled, revealing a sharply defined profile. He stood there, hands resting naturally at his sides, gaze calm on the cross ahead, as if awaiting not a globally watched wedding, but a reserved book in a library.
Elisa noted a detail: as the organist reached the most complex counterpoint of the fugue, Lorenzo's right index finger began that almost imperceptible, precise tapping again. He heard it. He understood it.
Just then, she felt a gaze.
Alessandro Visconti sat in the second row left, the Visconti family's reserved seats. He wore a midnight blue Savile Row suit today, his ash-blond hair still gleaming in the church's dim light. He was looking at her—or rather, at her through the vestry door crack. His grey-blue eyes held no anger, no disappointment, only a deep, almost pitying… certainty.
His lips moved silently. Elisa read the shape:
*Still mine.*
Then he turned back, his gaze resting on Lorenzo's back, a faint, contemptuous curve at the corner of his mouth. The expression said: *I can tell. I know what this is. A stand-in. An interlude. The stage will be mine again, in the end.*
The organ melody shifted. The solemn strains of the wedding march filled the church.
Anna gently pushed the door open. "It's time, Miss Elisa."
Elisa took a deep breath and took the arm of her father, Andrea Rossi, who waited by the door. Andrea gave her a gentle smile, whispering, "Relax, my dear."
She stepped into the nave.
Three thousand eyes instantly focused on her. She felt their weight: scrutiny, envy, curiosity, derision… and from the third row, right side, those four sets of pure, fervent, blessing-filled gazes.
Maria Costa already had a handkerchief to her mouth, tears glistening. Gianluigi straightened his spine further, a proud yet nervous smile on his face. Sofia (the sister) gaped, whispering something to Giulio, probably "Oh my God, she's so beautiful." And Giulio, the boy, blushed faintly.
Elisa forced her gaze away, forward.
Lorenzo had turned to face her.
His eyes met hers. Those deep brown eyes held none of the emotions she was familiar with—no awe, no nervousness, no performative affection. Only a calm, almost professional focus, like an actor waiting for his scene partner's cue.
The distance between them closed with the solemn music. Ten meters. Five. Two.
Elisa stopped before the altar. Andrea placed her hand in Lorenzo's. The gesture was full of ritual, but in that moment of transfer, she felt Andrea's fingers squeeze slightly—a silent reminder: *Remember your position.*
Andrea's hand was warm and dry. He held hers steadily.
The Archbishop of Milan began the ceremony in Latin. The ancient language echoed under the Gothic vaults, like an incantation from another century.
"Lorenzo Francesco Costa, vis accipere Elisam Mariam Rossi, hic praesentem, in tuam legitimam uxorem, iuxta ritum sanctae Matris Ecclesiae?"
Lorenzo's reply was clear and steady, cutting through the quiet church.
"Volo." (I will.)
The Archbishop's gaze turned to Elisa. She could feel everyone behind her holding their breath. Uncle Marco leaned forward. Signora Sofia (her mother) clenched her skirt. Alessandro's gaze pricked her back like needles.
And she looked at the man before her. This stranger with whom she had struck a deal in a library just three days prior. This man now holding her hand, his eyes calm as if signing a contract.
The moment for exchanging rings arrived.
Elisa took the heavy signet ring from the velvet cushion Anna held—the symbol of Ross family power. She lifted Lorenzo's left hand and slid the ring, thicker than her thumb, onto his ring finger. The cold touch of gold made her fingers tremble slightly. In that moment, she wasn't placing a ring on her husband's finger, but sealing a pact with a partner.
Now it was Lorenzo's turn.
He took a small black velvet box from his pocket. Opening it, he revealed the simple platinum band. He lifted Elisa's hand and, with a gentle yet decisive motion, slid the ring over her knuckle.
The moment the platinum touched her skin, Elisa felt a strange… lightness. Utterly different from the weight of the gold signet. This ring bore no gems, no engraving. It was like a secret, a mark of the contract known only to them.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Ego coniungo vos in matrimonium."
The Archbishop's voice rang out solemnly.
The organ burst into a glorious chord. Polite applause rippled through the congregation.
Elisa turned her face toward Lorenzo. As rehearsed, he should now lean in for a proper, photogenic kiss.
Lorenzo bent his head slightly. His breath drew near, carrying a faint scent of simple soap, starkly different from the heavy perfumes around them. His lips brushed her cheek—a precise, courteous, utterly emotionless kiss.
The applause grew louder. Uncle Marco let out a whistle—crass, but fitting for him. Maria Costa wiped her tears. Gianluigi clapped forcefully, his palms turning red.
And Alessandro Visconti clapped slowly, elegantly, his grey-blue eyes never leaving Elisa's face. That look said: *Well played. But the curtain will fall.*
The wedding procession began its slow recession down the aisle. Elisa, arm in arm with Lorenzo, walked the length of the central nave. To the left, the Ross family's smiles and scrutiny; to the right, the curious gazes and blessings of strangers.
As they passed the third row, Maria Costa suddenly reached out and gently touched Elisa's train—a motherly, blessing-filled gesture. Gianluigi gave Lorenzo a firm nod, his lips moving silently: *Bravo, figlio mio.* (Well done, my son.)
Lorenzo's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly for an instant. Elisa felt it.
Stepping out of the church doors, blinding sunlight and a deafening chorus of camera shutters assaulted them. Twenty microphones thrust forward like a jungle. Flashbulbs erupted into a sea of white light.
"Signora Rossi! Signor Costa! Over here!"
"How did you two meet?"
"Does this marriage signal a new strategic direction for the Ross Group?"
Elisa maintained a perfect smile, raising a hand slightly for quiet. Lorenzo stood half a step beside her, posture correct but showing no intention to speak—Clause Four: public statements led by her.
"Thank you all for your blessings," Elisa's voice, amplified, was clear and cool. "Today is the most important day in Lorenzo's and my life. We believe true value lies not in where one begins, but in what we build together."
A carefully crafted, impeccable PR line. It addressed the implied "class difference" question while hinting at "building together" in a business sense.
Reporters clamored for more, but security had already cleared a path, guiding them toward the waiting fleet of Rolls-Royces.
Inside the Phantom's rear cabin, the world fell abruptly silent as the door closed.
Elisa leaned back into the soft leather seat, exhaling a long breath. She removed the heavy antique veil and tossed it aside.
Lorenzo sat on the opposite seat, already loosening his bow tie. His movements were composed, as if concluding a long meeting.
Outside, Milan's streets drifted past. Sunlight filtered through the tinted windows, casting ambiguous shadows inside.
"Your father's surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at nine a.m.," Elisa broke the silence, her voice returning to its businesslike tone. "The Stanford Medical Center team is ready. All funds have been transferred from the trust."
Lorenzo paused, looking up at her.
"Thank you," he said, softly but with weight.
Another silence settled, broken only by the faint vibration of wheels on Milan's ancient cobblestones.
"Your family," Elisa spoke suddenly, her gaze on the window, "they seemed… genuinely happy."
Lorenzo was silent for a moment.
"They believe in love," he finally said, his tone even, yet it inexplicably pricked at Elisa. "My mother baked focaccia last night. She said a newlywed couple's first night should have homemade food. My father polished his best set of tools—the bakery ones—three times. He said if you ever need, he could teach you to knead dough."
Elisa's fingers curled. The platinum band pressed against her knuckle.
She remembered the tears in Maria Costa's eyes when she touched the train, Gianluigi's reddened palms, Sofia's (the sister's) undisguised awe, Giulio's flushed cheeks.
"Clause Ten," she said abruptly, her voice harder than intended. "Both parties shall avoid personal emotional exchange in non-essential contexts to maintain clarity of the relationship."
Lorenzo looked at her. Then he gave a slight nod.
"Understood."
The car passed through the gates of the Ross family estate. The wedding reception awaited in the glass conservatory, with three thousand white roses and Milan's most powerful guests.
A larger act was about to begin.
Far away in Tuscany, on the second floor above the Costa family bakery in San Gimignano, Maria was placing the carefully baked focaccia on the family table. Gianluigi opened a bottle of homemade wine he'd saved for years.
"To Lorenzo and Elisa," he raised his glass, eyes slightly red. "May they always be as happy as they are today."
Outside, the Tuscan sunset painted the ancient stone towers gold and crimson. In Milan, a feast in the name of love, built on calculation, was just beginning.
Two worlds. One marriage. And all that connected them was a platinum ring inscribed with nothing, and a 27-page legal document locked in a Zurich bank vault.