Chapter 10

The relentless glow of the Tuscan sun invaded the master suite of Villa dei Cipressi with a cruelty that belied the tenderness of the previous dawn. Sofia Duarte opened her eyes and, for a second of disorientation, felt the weight of Lorenzo Moretti’s arm across her waist. The heat of his body still lingered in the linen sheets, but the silence filling the room held no peace of a romantic awakening. It was a dense silence, heavy with the awareness of what had happened. Sofia felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had crossed the line she had sworn to keep intact; she had allowed the man who held her financial destiny in his hands to also possess her body.

With a careful movement, she disentangled herself from his embrace and sat on the edge of the bed. Her skin still seemed to burn in the places where Lorenzo had touched her with that feverish possessiveness. She looked at her own hands and felt a sudden, paralyzing fear. Where was the Sofia who had faced eviction with her chin held high? Where was the architect who saw Lorenzo as merely a necessary evil to save her father's legacy? By surrendering to that storm of desire, she felt she had yielded the last bastion of her independence. The contract was no longer just armor; now, it felt like a golden collar.

Lorenzo awoke moments later. Sofia didn’t need to look back to know the exact moment the "Iron King" reclaimed his throne. The warmth that had emanated from him during the night vanished, replaced by a metric coldness. She heard the sound of the sheet moving as he sat up, and when she finally gathered the courage to face him, she found the Lorenzo Moretti of Milan: the man whose dark eyes were opaque and whose expression was a mask of corporate indifference.

"It's past eight o’clock," said Lorenzo, his voice devoid of any trace of the passionate hoarseness from the early hours. He stood with impersonal agility, picking up his shirt from the floor without a hint of hesitation. "Vincenzo and the rest of the board will be here for breakfast in less than forty minutes. I suggest you hurry."

Sofia felt as though she’d been physically slapped. The implicit contempt in the way he dismissed the previous night, labeling it as an irregularity in the schedule, struck at the core of her pride.

"Is that all it is, Lorenzo?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to control it. "A schedule update? Last night you said I was yours. That there were no contracts between us."

Lorenzo paused, his hand on the bathroom doorknob. He didn’t turn fully, keeping his hardened profile against the window light.

"Last night was a biological response to a high-pressure environment, Sofia. The storm, the family history, the wine... they were variables that clouded judgment. But the reality is we have a company to defend today. If Vincenzo notices any change in our dynamic—any sign that we are emotionally vulnerable to each other—he will use it as leverage. I cannot afford to lose focus, and neither should you."

"Biological?" Sofia stood up, wrapping herself in her silk robe with defensive haste. "You speak as if we were discussing changing a steel supplier! I am not a statistical anomaly in your system, Lorenzo. I am the woman who slept with you because, for one foolish moment, I believed there was a real man behind that bespoke suit."

He finally turned, and for a brief second, Sofia saw a crack in the façade. There was a tension in his jaw, a glimmer of something resembling regret, but he smothered it with frightening speed.

"What you believe is irrelevant to the survival of Moretti Holdings," he retorted, his voice cutting. "What matters is that, in half an hour, you are the perfect Mrs. Moretti. Smiling, elegant, and above all, in control. The contract is still our only reality. The rest... the rest was a tactical error that will not be repeated."

He entered the bathroom and closed the door with a definitive firmness. The sound of the latch echoed like the firing of a sentence. Sofia stood in the middle of the room, feeling a mix of nausea and incandescent fury. The "hangover of power" was far more bitter than she had imagined. Lorenzo was trying to regain control the only way he knew: through coldness and distance. By labeling their passion as a "tactical error," he was trying to neutralize the power she now held over him.

She walked to the balcony, breathing the fresh Tuscan air that now felt suffocating. She realized Lorenzo’s trap was deeper than debts and mortgages. He wanted to maintain control over every inch of her existence, including her feelings. But Sofia’s pride, the same pride that had sustained her through the darkest days of the atelier, began to rise from the ashes of humiliation.

If Lorenzo wanted a contract, he would have a contract. If he wanted a cold, efficient partner, she would deliver exactly that—but not before ensuring he felt the weight of his own hypocrisy. She would not be the submissive wife begging for crumbs of affection after a night of surrender. She would reclaim her independence, even if it meant turning the "marriage" into a cold war of epic proportions.

When she met him in the villa courtyard for breakfast, Sofia was impeccable. She wore a white linen dress, her hair pulled into a severe bun, and a pair of sunglasses that hid any trace of weariness or hurt. Vincenzo was already there, watching the couple with an inquisitive gaze.

Lorenzo approached her and, following the protocol of their public performance, placed a possessive hand on her waist and kissed her temple. The gesture, which had once sparked electricity in Sofia, now felt merely like marble touching marble.

"Sleep well, darling?" he asked for his uncle’s benefit.

Sofia smiled at Vincenzo, a smile that was a triumph of will over pain.

"Marvelously," she replied, her voice clear and free of any true emotion. "Tuscany has a peculiar way of reminding us what is real and what is merely... fleeting. Isn’t that right, Lorenzo?"

She felt his fingers tighten against her waist, the only sign her barb had hit its mark. Throughout breakfast, Sofia conducted herself with icy efficiency. She discussed new investment projects with the advisors, demonstrated a technical understanding of the Moretti properties that surprised even Lorenzo, and maintained an emotional distance that made his "tactical kiss" a blatant lie for anyone who knew to look beyond the surface.

Catching her reflection in one of the villa’s ancient windows, Sofia no longer saw the vulnerable woman from the early hours. She saw a competitor. Lorenzo thought he could regain absolute control after experiencing the fire, but she knew that once steel is taken to the forge, it never returns to its original form. The hangover of power had left a sharp clarity in her mind: she would save her father’s legacy, but she would make Lorenzo Moretti a prisoner of his own rules. The Iron King thought he had won the battle of intimacy, but Sofia Duarte had just redefined the rules of the game. From that moment on, every look, every touch, and every clause would be wielded with mathematical precision. If he wanted a business deal, she would give him the most difficult deal of his life.