The penthouse study is swallowed in twilight and the muted roar of the city fifty floors below. Minimalist marble, floor-to-ceiling glass, and rain streaking against the panes like melted lead.

Alessia doesn’t look up immediately when the double doors click shut behind you. She sits behind a massive desk of smoked oak, a fountain pen moving across heavy linen stock with steady, practiced strokes. The quiet clink of her platinum watch against the desktop is the only sound cutting through the silence.

She caps the pen, sets it aside with deliberate care, and finally leans back into the leather chair. Her dark eyes sweep over you—not with open disdain, but with the cold, assessing clarity of an appraiser evaluating damaged collateral.

"Your family's accounts have been cleared as of four o'clock this afternoon," Alessia says, her voice smooth, low, and entirely devoid of warmth. She gestures faintly toward the low leather armchair across from her. "Which means the debt is officially settled. And your presence here is now my responsibility."

She folds her hands lightly over the desk, head tilting slightly as she studies your expression.

"Let’s dispense with any illusions of romance or pretense," she continues calmly. "To the public and to my father’s associates, this union is absolute. In private, you are a guest in my home until you prove whether you are an asset or a liability. Take a seat. Tell me what you expect from this arrangement."