Chapter 13

The papers the next morning called it “A Fairytale Engagement.”

Legacy meets legacy.

The Virelli heir and the Hartwell daughter, an empire reborn.

Flawless smiles, golden lighting, a kiss on the cheek framed by the Virelli crest.

Luca sat in the breakfast salon at the estate, jaw locked as he scrolled through headline after headline. Every image was perfectly curated. Except the man in them felt like a stranger.

“You photograph well,” Serena said, breezing in with a silk robe and zero shame. She poured herself black coffee, no sugar, and didn’t bother asking if he wanted any. “At least you didn’t sweat through your collar this time.”

Luca didn’t answer.

She sank into the chair across from him, tucking one leg under the other like a queen in her throne. “Your mother’s over the moon. My father already called Paolo twice. It’s exactly the kind of chaos they thrive on.”

“And you?”

Serena smiled, eyes sharp. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

Luca stared at her. “You’re really okay with this?”

She blinked. “With what? Being married to a man who doesn’t want me, or watching you unravel every time my brother breathes in your direction?”

His throat tightened.

She took a sip of coffee. “Let me be very clear, Luca. I don’t care what you do. But you won’t make a fool of me. You won’t humiliate this family. And you will show up when I say so, dressed the way I say, smiling like the world is yours.”

He stood abruptly. The chair scraped back against the tile.

She didn’t flinch.

“You made your choice,” she added. “You put on the ring. Now live with it.”

Luca’s driver waited outside, idling in the circular drive. The ride back to his penthouse was silent. He stared out the window as the city moved around him, bright, relentless, unforgiving.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said.

Faggot.

It echoed. Over and over.

He wasn’t sure if he hated Asher more for being right… or himself for knowing it.

That night, he stood in his closet, looking at rows of designer suits. All tailored. All sterile. The kind of armor men like his father wore, nothing too bold, too soft, too real.

Luca dressed for a meeting he didn’t need to attend, just for something to do.

As he adjusted his cufflinks, he glanced at his phone.

No texts.

Meanwhile, across the city, Asher Hartwell sat on the rooftop of a private security firm he partially owned. The skyline sprawled in every direction, but he wasn’t looking at it.

He was staring at the same three words on his screen.

“I’m sorry.”

A text from Luca. Sent hours ago.

He didn’t reply.

He deleted it.

Some mistakes deserved to hurt.

The next day, Luca was seated in a private lounge at the Virelli corporate tower. Paolo’s boardroom meeting had dragged past schedule, and Serena was running late for their dinner with the prime minister’s son. Of course she was.

He checked his reflection in the mirror across the marble wall. Fixed his tie.

Then the door opened, Serena entered, calm as a glacier.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” Luca said, standing straighter, slipping his mask back on like muscle memory.

He offered his arm.

She took it.

At the dinner that night, Luca laughed when he was supposed to. Toasted when prompted. Listened to the PM’s son drone about luxury satellites and made mental notes for press statements.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Every time he glanced at Serena’s red nails on his wrist, he remembered Asher’s hand, rough, real, gripping the back of his neck like he mattered.

Every time the cameras flashed, he saw the shadows of the gallery hallway. Heard his own voice like a whip.

You’re just a faggot who doesn’t know when to quit.

He excused himself halfway through dessert.

Luca splashed cold water on his face in the private washroom, gripping the edge of the marble sink like it could hold him steady.

The mirror refused to lie. It never had.

His eyes were hollow. Not tired, just… drained. Like something had been siphoned out of him in the space of a week. Maybe longer.

He reached for a towel, patted his face dry, then leaned forward, bracing himself.

A part of him had hoped Asher would reply. Even if it was with fury. With hate. Something.

But there was nothing. Silence.

And silence said everything.

Luca stared at the reflection a little longer.

“I said I was sorry,” he murmured aloud, as if hearing it in his own voice might make it real. Might make it enough.

But it wasn’t, and he knew that.

Asher deserved better than a too late apology hidden behind a screen.

Still, if he didn’t respond, what more could Luca do?

He wasn’t going to beg.

He wasn’t going to chase someone who didn’t want to be caught.

Right?

He straightened, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with sharp, mechanical movements. Mask back on. Shoulders squared.

Asher wasn’t texting back.

Fine.

He would move on.

Forget.

Bury it.

He stepped out of the washroom just as Serena caught his eye from across the dining hall, already smiling for the next round of introductions.

Luca smiled back.

It didn’t touch his eyes.

That night, the city lights shimmered outside his penthouse windows like static. After he got home, he stood in front of the glass, glass of scotch in hand, untouched.

His phone stayed face down on the counter, screen dark.

No response. Not that he expected one anymore.

He almost opened their text again but stopped himself.

Instead, he opened his notes app. Stared at a blank screen. Typed:

He didn’t answer. So maybe that means I should stop waiting.

He hit delete before finishing the sentence.

Because even in private, he couldn’t admit how much that silence hurt.