The rain in Milan didn't feel like the refreshing showers Eimi was used to back home. Here, it felt heavy, like a gray shroud falling over the marble statues and cobblestone streets.

Eimi sat in the back of a black sedan, her hands gripped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Across from her sat her father, Hiroshi, and her older brother, Kenji. Usually, these two men radiated power. They were the pillars of the Takahashi empire—a family name that once commanded respect in every boardroom from Tokyo to London.

But today, they looked like ghosts.

"Are we really doing this?" Eimi's voice was barely a whisper.

Her father didn't look at her. He was staring out the window at the towering iron gates of the Moretti estate. "The rivals have choked our supply lines, Eimi. By next month, the banks will seize everything. Our homes, our employees' livelihoods... your future. Everything is on the edge of a cliff."

Kenji reached over and squeezed her hand. His palm was sweaty. "The Morettis are the only ones with enough liquidity to bail us out. We have no choice but to ask."

The car rolled up a long, winding driveway lined with ancient cypress trees. At the top of the hill sat a villa that looked more like a fortress. This was the home of the Moretti family—the most powerful dynasty in Italy, and the rivals-turned-only-hope for the Takahashis.

The Lions' Den

They were led into a study that smelled of old leather, expensive tobacco, and power.

Lorenzo Moretti, the patriarch of the family, stood by a massive oak desk. He was a man in his sixties with silver hair and eyes that looked like they could see through steel. He greeted Eimi's father with a polite, cold nod.

"Hiroshi," Lorenzo said, his voice a deep rumble. "It has been a long time."

"Lorenzo. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Eimi's father replied, his pride clearly wounded.

For the next hour, Eimi felt like an object on display. She listened as her father and brother laid out the disaster. They showed the numbers, the bankruptcy filings, and the aggressive moves their rivals had made. They offered shares of the company, land, and future profits. They were begging, even if they didn't use the word.

Lorenzo listened in silence. Finally, he held up a hand.

"I don't want your shares, Hiroshi. And I don't need your land," Lorenzo said calmly. He turned his gaze toward Eimi. She felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't a gaze of lust, but of calculation. "I want stability. I want a legacy. And most importantly, I want my son to settle down."

Eimi's breath hitched. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"I will clear your debts," Lorenzo continued. "I will provide the capital to crush your rivals. But in exchange, I want a merger of blood. I want your daughter, Eimi, to marry my son, Marco."

The Ghost of the Past

The silence in the room was deafening.

"Marriage?" Kenji stood up, his face flushed. "This isn't the Middle Ages, Lorenzo! You can't just buy a bride."

"I am not buying her," Lorenzo said, unbothered. "I am offering a contract. A partnership. One year of marriage to fix both of our problems. Marco needs a wife to secure his position as the head of our European operations. Your family needs a miracle. This is the miracle."

Eimi felt the room spinning. Marco.

She hadn't heard that name in three years, but the memory of him was burned into her mind. They had met during a summer gala when their families were still on speaking terms.

It had been a disaster.

Marco Moretti was arrogant, cold, and possessed a sharp tongue that knew exactly how to hurt her. He had called her a "spoiled princess who knew nothing of the real world." She had called him a "heartless machine." They had fought over everything—politics, art, even the way the wine was served. By the end of that summer, they loathed each other so much they couldn't even stand in the same room.

"He will never agree to this," Eimi blurted out, her voice trembling. "Marco hates me. And I... I cannot stand him."

Lorenzo smiled thinly. "My son is a businessman. He understands the value of a deal. But you are right—he is stubborn. That is why I am not asking him to convince you. I am asking you to help me convince him."

The Unwanted Encounter

Lorenzo led them out to the wide stone balcony overlooking the gardens. Below, near a fountain that featured a marble lion, a man was standing.

Even from a distance, Eimi recognized the silhouette. He was tall, wearing a tailored black suit that made him look like a shadow against the green grass. He was looking at a tablet, his face set in a permanent scowl.

"Marco!" Lorenzo called out.

The man turned. When his eyes landed on the group on the balcony—and specifically on Eimi—his expression shifted from boredom to pure, icy disdain.

He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He simply began walking toward them, his strides long and purposeful. Every step he took felt like a drumbeat of war.

Eimi's father leaned in close to her. "Eimi... please. Just talk to him. If we leave here without his signature on that contract, we lose everything. We will be on the streets by Monday."

Eimi looked at her father's desperate eyes, then at her brother's slumped shoulders. Then, she looked down at the man approaching them.

Marco reached the balcony. He ignored his father and Eimi's family, looking straight at Eimi.

"What are you doing here, Princess?" he asked. His Italian accent was thick, his voice like gravel. "Did you run out of tea and silk? Or did you finally realize your father's ship was sinking and come to beg for a lifejacket?"

"Marco," Lorenzo warned. "Be a host."

"I am being a host," Marco snapped, his eyes flashing with a deep-seated anger. "I am asking why a ghost from a failed company is haunting my home."

Eimi stepped forward, her heart hammering against her ribs. She hated him. She hated his perfect hair, his expensive watch, and the way he looked down at her. But she remembered the "Bankrupt" notices on her father's desk.

"I'm not here to beg, Marco," Eimi said, her voice regaining some of its old fire. "I'm here because your father has a proposal. One that involves a contract, a ring, and a year of us pretending we don't want to kill each other."

Marco froze. He looked at his father, then back at Eimi. A dark, cynical laugh escaped his lips.

"A marriage?" Marco stepped into her personal space, so close she could smell his cedarwood cologne. "You and me? I'd rather sign a contract with the devil himself."

"Then we have something in common," Eimi hissed. "Because being your wife sounds like a life sentence."

Lorenzo stepped between them, a calm shark in a suit. "Think about it, Marco. The Takahashi connections in Asia, the end of the feud, and the image of a settled man. And Eimi... think of your family's name."

Lorenzo walked away, taking Eimi's father and brother with him, leaving the two enemies alone on the balcony as the sun began to set over the Italian hills.

Marco leaned against the stone railing, looking at her with narrowed eyes. "How much is your pride worth, Eimi? Because if we do this, I will make your life a very beautiful, very expensive misery."

Eimi crossed her arms, refusing to back down. "My pride is worth exactly what it takes to save my family. If that means dealing with you for 365 days, then start the clock."

The contract was unspoken, but the war had officially begun.

The library of the Moretti villa was colder than the balcony. Rows of leather-bound books climbed to the ceiling, and a single marble table sat in the center. On it lay a thick stack of papers—the marriage contract.

Marco sat at the head of the table, his silk tie loosened. He looked like a king deciding the fate of a prisoner. Eimi sat opposite him, her back straight. She had spent the last hour in the guest room splashing cold water on her face. She wouldn't let him see her cry.

"My lawyers have drafted the basics," Marco said, sliding a gold pen toward her. "But I think we should add our own... personal clauses. To ensure we don't end up in a headline for domestic battery."

Eimi picked up the pen. It was heavy. "Agreed. I have my own conditions."

Marco leaned back, crossing his arms. "Ladies first, Princess. What does the fallen heiress want?"

Rule 1: No Physical Contact

"First," Eimi said, her voice steady. "This is a business merger, not a romance. There will be no physical intimacy. No touching, no shared beds, and certainly no 'husbandly duties'."

Marco let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, Eimi. You're beautiful, yes, but I prefer women who don't look at me like I'm a piece of rotten meat. Consider that rule signed in blood. We sleep in separate wings of the house."

Rule 2: The Public Mask

"Second," Marco countered, leaning forward. "In public, you are the doting wife of the Moretti heir. You smile when I speak. You hold my arm at galas. You make the world believe that the Takahashi and Moretti feud ended in a whirlwind romance. If the press suspects this is fake, your father's debt stays on his shoulders."

Eimi swallowed hard. Acting like she loved him would be harder than any exam she'd ever taken. "Fine. But only when the cameras are on. The moment the car door closes, the mask comes off."

Rule 3: No Interference

"Third," Eimi added quickly. "You don't get to control my life. I want to continue my own projects. I am a writer, Marco. I won't spend my days being a trophy wife who just hosts tea parties."

Marco shrugged. "As long as your 'projects' don't embarrass the family name, I don't care if you spend your days writing poetry or counting the stars. Just be ready when I need you for a corporate event."

Rule 4: The One-Year Deadline

"And finally," Marco said, his voice dropping an octave. "365 days. Not a day more. On the 366th day, we file for a quiet divorce. You get a generous settlement, your family's company is fully restored, and I get my seat as the Head of the Board. We go back to being strangers."

"Strangers who never have to see each other again," Eimi clarified. "Deal."

The Hidden Clause

As Eimi began to read through the fine print, her eyes stopped on a paragraph near the bottom.

"Section 8.2: Family Expectations. Both parties agree to reside in the Moretti Ancestral Villa in Lake Como for the first three months of the marriage to satisfy the observations of the Elders."

"Lake Como?" Eimi looked up, panicked. "That's in the middle of nowhere. It's a private estate. We'll be trapped there."

"My grandfather lives there," Marco said, his expression darkening for the first time. "He's the one holding the checkbook for your father's debt. He doesn't trust modern marriages. He wants to see us 'bonding' in the family home. If he's not convinced in those three months, the deal is off."

Eimi felt a trap closing around her. It wasn't just about pretending at parties; she would have to live under the same roof as her enemy, in a secluded villa, under the watchful eye of a traditional Italian patriarch.

"Is there a problem?" Marco asked, a smirk playing on his lips. "Are you afraid you might actually start to like me if we're stuck in a romantic villa together?"

"I'm afraid I'll throw you off a balcony into the lake," Eimi snapped.

"Good," Marco stood up, straightening his jacket. "Keep that fire. It'll make the 'passion' look more realistic for my grandfather."

The Signing

Eimi looked at the line at the bottom of the page.

If she signed this, she was no longer Eimi Takahashi, the independent woman with dreams of her own. She was Mrs. Marco Moretti. She was a shield for her father and a pawn for the Morettis.

She thought of her brother Kenji's tired face. She thought of the employees back in Japan who would lose their jobs if the company folded.

With a shaky hand, she pressed the pen to the paper. The ink bled into the fibers, black and permanent.

Eimi Takahashi.

Marco took the pen from her fingers, his skin accidentally brushing hers for a split second. A spark—sharp and unwanted—shot up her arm. She pulled away instantly.

Marco didn't flinch. He signed his name in a bold, aggressive script.

Marco Moretti.

"Welcome to the family, Princess," Marco said, his voice cold and devoid of any welcome. "Pack your bags. We leave for the wedding in Florence tomorrow morning. And Eimi?"

She looked up at him.

"Try to look a little less like you're going to a funeral. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your life."

He turned and walked out of the library, leaving Eimi alone with the ghost of her signature and the crushing weight of the year to come.

The Cathedral in Florence was breathtaking. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in shades of ruby and gold. To the hundreds of guests and the flashing cameras of the paparazzi, it was the wedding of the century.

Eimi stood at the altar, her body hidden beneath layers of exquisite white lace. Her veil was so long it required two bridesmaids to carry, but to her, it felt like a heavy shroud.

Marco stood beside her, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal-grey tuxedo. His face was a mask of calm perfection, but as he reached out to take her hand for the ring ceremony, his grip was firm and cold.

"You're shaking, Princess," Marco whispered, his voice so low only she could hear it over the priest's Latin chanting. "Try to look happy. You're getting exactly what you wanted—my family's money."

Eimi forced a tight, artificial smile for the cameras. "I'm shaking with the effort of not punching you in front of the Cardinal, Marco. Don't mistake it for nerves."

"With the power vested in me," the priest announced, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The applause was deafening. Marco turned to her, his eyes unreadable. According to tradition, he had to kiss the bride. He leaned in, his hand cupping her jaw with a gentleness that was entirely fake. As his lips brushed hers, Eimi felt a jolt of electricity that made her breath catch. It was a brief, dry contact, but it felt like a brand.

"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Moretti," he murmured against her ear as they turned to face the crowd.

The Villa of Shadows

By the time they reached the ancestral villa in Lake Como, the moon was high. The estate was silent, surrounded by dark water and whispering cypress trees.

Eimi was exhausted. Her head ached from the heavy tiara, and her feet were sore from the heels. All she wanted was to take off the dress and sleep for twenty-four hours.

Marco led her through the grand foyer to the master suite. He pushed open the double oak doors and stopped.

Eimi walked in behind him and gasped. The room was filled with hundreds of white roses and scented candles. A bottle of vintage champagne sat on ice. But the problem was in the center of the room: one massive, king-sized bed.

"Where is the other room?" Eimi asked, her voice rising in panic. "The contract said separate wings!"

Marco walked over to a small note left on the pillow. He read it, his jaw tightening. "It's from my grandfather. 'A young couple should not be apart on their first night. I have closed the other wings for renovation. Enjoy the heritage of the Moretti family.'"

"He's testing us," Eimi whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "He doesn't believe the marriage is real."

Marco cursed under his breath, throwing his jacket onto a chair. "The old man is sharper than I thought. He knows if we are truly in love, we wouldn't complain about sharing a room."

The First Night

Eimi looked at the bed, then at Marco. He was already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the tanned, muscular chest of a man who spent his free time boxing or rowing on the lake. Eimi quickly looked away, her heart racing.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

"I'm tired, Eimi. I've been acting for twelve hours straight. I'm going to sleep," Marco said, kicking off his shoes.

"Not on this bed! I'll take the bed, you take the sofa."

Marco pointed to the sofa—a narrow, antique velvet piece that looked like it was designed for a doll, not a six-foot-tall man. "I pay the bills, Princess. I sleep in the bed. You can sleep on the floor for all I care."

"You are a pig!" Eimi grabbed a silk pillow and threw it at him.

Marco caught it easily, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. He took three long strides until he was standing right in front of her. The smell of expensive wine and cedarwood wrapped around her again.

"Listen to me," Marco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous silkiness. "We are in a house full of servants who report directly to my grandfather. If they see me sleeping on a sofa or in a different room, the news reaches him by breakfast. Do you want your father's debt back? Do you want to go home to a bankrupt house?"

Eimi glared at him, her eyes stinging with frustrated tears. "I hate you."

"Good. Keep that hate," Marco said, stepping back. "It's safer than the alternative. Now, get changed. You take the left side, I take the right. If you cross the middle line, I'm throwing you into the lake."

Eimi grabbed her silk nightgown and retreated to the bathroom, slamming the door.

When she came out twenty minutes later, the lights were dimmed. Marco was already under the covers, his back turned to her. He looked like a statue of carved stone.

Eimi climbed into the other side, staying as far on the edge as possible. The bed was huge, but she could still feel the heat radiating from his body. Every sound—the rustle of the sheets, the rhythmic sound of his breathing—felt amplified in the silence.

For the first time in her life, Eimi was a wife. But as she stared at the moonlit ceiling of the Italian villa, she had never felt more alone.

The year had only just begun.