Marcello’s eyes were steady, serious, soft as if I were the only anchor in his chaotic world.
“Bianca,” he said, gripping my hand like it was the only thing holding him upright, “I’ll take care of you. Always. No matter what comes, you’ll never need to worry.”
I smiled, heart so full it ached.
“Even if the world turns against me?” I whispered.
“Especially then,” he promised.
---
Another memory surfaced: a summer night under a sky full of stars. Limbs tangled, dreams whispered.
“I don’t care about money, power, or any legacy,” Marcello murmured, voice fierce. “You’re my future. You and me. We’ll build something real. Nothing can take it from us.”
I laughed, fearless. “You make me believe in forever.”
He kissed me like he meant it. Forever seemed ours already.
Then came my father.
The man with the crown no one dared touch.
When I told him I loved Marcello—blood not pure, name not right—his face froze into winter.
“Bianca,” he said, steel in his voice, “you’re dead to me. You don’t drag our name into this filth.”
I held my ground, tears burning but voice steady. “I am not your possession.”