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.