Chapter 7

The morning sun in Milan brought not clarity, but a persistent mist that seemed to hide secrets beneath the arcades of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. In the command center of Moretti Holdings, the atmosphere was one of siege. Lorenzo Moretti watched the screen of his personal computer, where a cybersecurity alert indicated multiple unauthorized attempts to access the civil and banking records of his marriage to Sofia Duarte. These were not random attacks; they were surgical, driven by a toxic curiosity aimed at piercing the Iron King’s armor.

"Vincenzo isn’t acting alone," Lorenzo murmured, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep since the incident in the study. He turned to Marco, who stood by the door, a black leather folder in his hands. "Who else is funding the investigators?"

"Intelligence points to the Valenti Group, sir. They’ve hired a private audit agency specializing in reputation due diligence. They’re tracking every cent that left your personal accounts for the Atelier Duarte rescue fund before the official union date. They’re looking for proof of payment for the marriage."

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. The Valenti Group was his greatest rival in the infrastructure sector, a dynasty that despised the ruthless modernization Lorenzo had imposed on the market. For them, toppling the legitimacy of Lorenzo’s union wasn’t just a matter of corporate ethics; it was a means to activate the share redistribution clause and dismantle Moretti Holdings.

"They’re digging graves where there should only be dust," said Lorenzo, though he knew the truth was a tenuous thread. "But perception is everything. If the board suspects there was a direct financial transaction in exchange for the 'yes,' my grandfather’s will will be challenged by the executor."

"There’s another issue, sir," Marco hesitated, opening the folder. "Photos. A paparazzo or a planted investigator captured images of you two leaving the gala last week. They’re analyzing body language. Headlines in the digital tabloids are already questioning why the 'newlyweds' keep such rigorously separate schedules during the day."

Lorenzo took the photos. In one, he and Sofia were in the limousine; her expression was one of icy weariness, and his, of imperial detachment. There was none of the warmth the public expected from a couple in the honeymoon phase. The tension that had nearly ignited the study the previous night didn’t show in these images; in them, they seemed merely two strangers sharing a luxury vehicle.

"I need Sofia here," ordered Lorenzo. "Now."

Twenty minutes later, Sofia entered the conference room. She wore a camel-colored wool coat and carried the project folder Lorenzo had nearly destroyed on his desk. The look they exchanged was charged with the memory of the stolen kiss, an electricity both tried to smother under the cloak of professionalism.

"More rules, Lorenzo?" she asked, sitting at the table without waiting for an invitation. "Or have you finally decided to discuss the terms of the theater restoration without trying to throw me out of your study?"

Lorenzo pushed the photos and investigation reports across the table.

"The restoration is the least of our concerns today, Sofia. We’re under surveillance. The Valentis and my uncle are using every resource available to prove our marriage is a contract of convenience. They’re looking for the money trail and the lack of..." he paused briefly, the word seeming strange on his lips, "...intimacy."

Sofia read the reports, her expression shifting from defiance to genuine concern. She knew that if the scheme was discovered, the money that had saved her father’s legacy could be claimed illegally, throwing them back into the abyss.

"What do you suggest?" she asked, closing the folder. "If they’re following us, any false move will be the end."

"I suggest we stop pretending only when the cameras are on. The external pressure demands we create a narrative of closeness that even a trained investigator would accept as real. That means, starting today, our lives will merge more than the contract anticipated. You’ll come to the company in the afternoons. We’ll lunch together in public three times a week. And there will be no more separate rooms when we travel."

Sofia felt a chill run down her spine. The idea of spending more time in Lorenzo’s gravitational field was both a necessity and a danger.

"Travel?"

"Vincenzo has arranged a family and shareholder meeting for next weekend. They want a 'bonding' event to celebrate the union and discuss new investments in Tuscany. It’s a trap, of course," Lorenzo explained, rising and walking toward her. "They want to observe us in a less controlled environment than a gala in Milan. They want to see how we interact when there’s no stage set."

He stopped behind her chair, his hands resting on Sofia’s shoulders. The touch was light, but the pressure was palpable. Sofia felt his warmth through the fabric of her coat, a constant reminder of the vulnerability he had mentioned before.

"If we don’t convince my uncle and the Valentis that this is real, we lose everything," he whispered near her ear. "I lose my company, and you lose the atelier. The price of our survival is your constant presence at my side."

"You’re asking me to give up the little privacy I have left," said Sofia, turning to face him, her face inches from his. "You’re asking me to live a lie twenty-four hours a day."

"I’m asking you to be my partner," corrected Lorenzo, and for the first time, it didn’t sound like a corporate order, but an appeal from someone who saw the walls of his castle under attack. "The shadow of suspicion is long, Sofia. If we don’t bring light into this marriage, they’ll devour us alive in the shadows."

The external pressure was acting as a cruel catalyst. The need for self-preservation was forcing the couple into a proximity the original contract had tried to avoid. What had begun as an icy transaction was being shaped by the heat of urgency. Sofia realized there was nowhere left to run; the penthouse, the travels, and the public lunches were the new clauses of a pact that was becoming increasingly personal and dangerous.

"When do we leave?" she asked, sealing her commitment to the new phase of the farce.

"Friday morning. Until then, be prepared to be Milan’s most devoted wife. Every gesture, every look, every touch will be scrutinized. We can’t let them see the lie."

Lorenzo stepped away, but the void he left in the air seemed heavier than his presence. As they planned the logistics of the constant performance, the shadow of suspicion grew outside, fed by rivals hungry for a misstep. But inside the cold, technological conference room, the real danger was the involuntary intimacy beginning to blossom in the cracks of the concrete. The Iron King and his contract bride were about to enter a territory where masks would be tested to the limit, and where the only way to save the farce was to surrender to a truth neither was ready to admit. If the world wanted to see a couple in love, they would deliver the performance of their lives, even if it meant losing themselves in each other in the process. The strategy now was total fusion, and in a game where image was the only valid reality, Lorenzo and Sofia were about to discover that the most dangerous pretense is the one that begins to look, desperately, like reality.