Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11 - Chapitre 20

The addiction began with small lapses in behavior, cracks almost imperceptible in the steel structure Lorenzo Moretti had built around himself. Under the blinding Milanese sun, which bathed the penthouse in a white, merciless light, the facade of the marriage of convenience had transformed into something much darker and more addictive: a mutual dependency that flourished in the secrecy of domestic shadows. In public, they were the golden couple of Italian infrastructure; in private, they had become clandestine lovers within their own fortress, prisoners of a desire that was not in any clause.The routine of secret meetings established itself organically, as if one's body recognized the other's magnetism through the walls. Lorenzo, who had always prized the predictability of his schedule, now found himself sabotaging his own meetings to secure an extra ten minutes before dinner in Sofia's suite. There were no flowers, no candlelit dinners, none of the romantic frills Lorenzo considered

The echo of Lorenzo Moretti's steps on the polished marble of the Circolo della Stampa was the sound of an approaching storm. The Lombardy industrial leaders' annual reception was in full swing, a sea of tuxedos and designer dresses where politeness served only to hide the sharp edge of ambition. Sofia was just a few meters away, surrounded by a group of investors that included the heir to a rival steel company, a man whose surname exuded a hereditary arrogance that Lorenzo had always detested."It's admirable, really," the man said, his voice projected to be heard by passersby. "Lorenzo always had a keen eye for infrastructure. He knows when a structure is about to collapse and how to acquire it for a fraction of its real price. And I see his asset acquisition policy has extended to his personal life. They say the Duarte Atelier was days away from total liquidation before the... marriage."Sofia paled, the crystal glass trembling slightly in her hand. The insult was an invisible blad

The silence that followed Sofia’s exit from Lorenzo’s office was not the productive silence he so cherished; it was a sonic absence, as though the oxygen had been sucked from the room, leaving only a sterile void. Lorenzo remained motionless behind his ebony desk, hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white. He had heard every word she said as though it were a final verdict, but pride—that cruel master who had ruled him for thirty-five years—refused to yield.Up in the penthouse, the scene of the disaster became physical. Sofia did not shout while she packed her bags. The sound echoing down the granite corridor was that of drawers being opened and closed with icy precision. Lorenzo, who had followed her upstairs on an impulse he himself could not explain, stopped at the threshold of the east suite. He watched her fold her clothes, her movements a reverse mirror of the night she had first arrived.“You can’t just leave,” Lorenzo said, his voice attempting to recla

The grand hall of Palazzo Mezzanotte, headquarters of the Milan Stock Exchange, buzzed with Europe’s financial elite, but to Lorenzo Moretti, the scene felt more like a modern-day Colosseum. The annual Moretti Holdings event was the critical moment that Vincenzo and the Valenti Group had been waiting for to deliver the coup de grâce. Rumors that the marriage was a sham and that Lorenzo was losing control of the family assets circulated backstage like a gas leak, ready to explode at the first sign of weakness.Lorenzo adjusted the cuffs of his tuxedo, his face radiating the imperturbability that was his trademark. Yet his true strength no longer came solely from his iron armor, but from the woman walking beside him. Sofia Duarte wore a midnight-blue silk gown that seemed to capture every shadow and light in the room. She was no longer merely an escort; she had become the master strategist who, over the past two days, had spent sleepless nights with him mapping every move of their adver

The Milan skyline, which once served merely as a backdrop to Lorenzo Moretti’s icy ambitions, now seemed bathed in a different light. From the penthouse that had formerly resembled a fortress of glass and isolation, the couple watched the city awaken. The weight of the “torn contract” no longer hung between them; the ashes of those steel clauses had been swept away by the full acceptance that what bound them was far stronger than any legal tie.The decision to renew their vows had not been a strategic necessity to silence the board—Vincenzo and the Valenti were now retreating shadows in the face of Lorenzo’s absolute consolidation of power—but a rite of passage for both of them. They wanted Milan to witness not the merger of two assets, but the founding of a new dynasty based on an equitable partnership of intellect and passion.“Are you ready, Sofia?” Lorenzo appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He was already dressed, wearing an impeccably cut graphite-gray suit,