Rome was nothing like Lake Como.
The city breathed in chaos and exhaled life vespas darting through narrow streets, vendors shouting in the marketplaces, lovers strolling hand in hand beneath crumbling ruins that had outlasted empires. To Isabella, it felt like another planet, one where nobody knew her name, her family, or the scandal she had left behind.
Three days had passed since she fled her wedding. She had traded her wedding gown for a simple dress bought from a secondhand shop, clipped her curls loosely, and hidden her face beneath dark sunglasses. She had taken a room in a small pensioner run by an old woman who asked no questions as long as the bills were paid in cash.
Every night, Isabella lay awake, replaying the look on Alessandro's face as she ran. His anger was a storm, and she knew storms always found their way. But she could not let fear rule her. Not now.
Still, she had to eat. She had to find a way to survive without the Conti fortune cushioning her every step.
Which was how she ended up at a café on the Via Veneto, sipping bitter espresso and flipping through a discarded newspaper. The front page made her breath hitch.
Runaway Bride Scandal: Billionaire Romano Left at the Altar.
Her photo glared back at her face veiled, lips tense, eyes distant. The article described her as "the Conti heiress who humiliated one of Italy's most powerful men."
Isabella's stomach twisted. Her hand moved to fold the paper, but before she could, a shadow fell across her table.
"Quite the headline," a voice drawled.
She froze. Slowly, she lifted her eyes.
The man standing before her was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair swept carelessly back. His tailored navy suit spoke of money, but it was his gaze sharp, assessing, with a flicker of amusement that unnerved her. She knew that face. Everyone in Italy did.
Marco De Luca.
Billionaire hotelier. Owner of a chain of luxury resorts spanning Europe and the Middle East. Ruthless negotiator. Tabloid enigma.
And now, apparently, the man reading over her shoulder.
"I—" Isabella stammered, shoving the paper aside. "It's nothing."
Marco's lips curved, though not into a smile. More like curiosity disguised as charm. "Nothing? You're on every front page in the country. The woman who dared to humiliate Alessandro Romano. People are calling you brave. Others are calling you reckless. Me? I'm just intrigued."
Her pulse skittered. "You must be mistaken."
He chuckled, low and smooth. "I don't make mistakes. Especially not about faces as unforgettable as yours, signorina Conti."
Her disguise had failed. She pulled her sunglasses tighter against her face, but it was useless. Marco had seen too much.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
He slid into the chair opposite her, uninvited but entirely at ease. "That depends. What do you want?"
"I want to be left alone."
"Impossible." His tone was matter-of-fact, not cruel. "You don't run from a Romano and vanish without consequences. He'll already be searching. Your family will want to clean up the mess. You can't outrun them forever."
The words cut like truth. Isabella's throat tightened, but she lifted her chin. "Then I'll try."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Marco studied her as though she were a puzzle. Then he leaned forward, voice dropping.
"You're braver than I expected. Most women would have smiled and accepted their gilded cage. You ran." His eyes darkened, and something unreadable flickered across his face. "That makes you… useful."
Her breath caught. "Useful?"
"I have a proposition," he said smoothly. "One that might benefit us both."
Isabella's instincts screamed not to trust him. Marco De Luca was not a man of charity; he was a man of strategy. But desperation pressed on her ribs like her old corset. If he could offer protection, even temporarily, maybe she could breathe again.
She folded her arms, trying to mask the trembling of her hands. "I'm listening."
Marco's smile was slow, deliberate, and entirely dangerous.
Rome was a city alive with contrasts, ancient ruins stood side by side with modern cafes, the cobblestone streets echoed with the hurried footsteps of locals, and the air carried the scent of roasted coffee beans, sweet pastries, and the faint tang of the Tiber. Isabella walked these streets like a shadow, blending in with the rhythm of the city, invisible to the world that still wanted her story.
Three days had passed since her escape from Lake Como. Three days in which she had shed her wedding gown, her jewels, her veil, and everything that had defined her as the obedient Conti heiress. She had traded luxury for anonymity, slipping into a modest pensione tucked away in Trastevere, its windows draped in faded curtains and the faint smell of old books and home-cooked meals. The room was small but safe, and for the first time in her life, Isabella could breathe.
Yet safety was fragile, and Rome was vast, but the world had a way of shrinking just when she thought she could disappear.
She had ventured out that afternoon, purchasing bread and cheese from a street vendor, when she noticed him.
A man leaning against the corner of the piazza, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that contrasted sharply with the worn cobblestones beneath him. Dark hair swept back, eyes sharp, observing the bustling street with a predator's awareness. Isabella froze, her pulse quickening. The face was unmistakable.
Marco De Luca.
She had seen him in magazines and news reports: Italy's most elusive billionaire, a man whose hotels, yachts, and investments spanned continents. Known for his ruthlessness in business and for keeping his personal life strictly private, Marco had a reputation that preceded him. And now he was here, in this crowded piazza, staring directly at her.
Her instinct screamed to run. But where could she go? The city was teeming with people, yet somehow, in that moment, she felt entirely exposed.
"Quite the headline," a voice said, low and smooth.
Isabella's breath caught. She looked up into eyes that were assessing, calculating, and surprisingly, curious.
Marco stepped closer, his presence magnetic. "The runaway bride of Lake Como," he continued, glancing at her with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "Everyone's talking about you."
She clutched her bag tightly. "I'm not anyone you should be interested in."
His smile was faint, knowing. "On the contrary, signorina Conti, you're fascinating precisely because everyone else thinks you're just a scandal. You ran. You defied expectations. You're… interesting."
Her heart raced. She had escaped one man's control only to be confronted by another, equally powerful, equally dangerous.
"I don't even know you," she said softly.
"Yet you know enough," he replied, his voice dropping slightly. "I recognize a woman who can make her own choices. Who doesn't bend easily. That's rare."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what is it that you want from me?"
Marco slid into the café chair opposite her without asking. His movements were fluid, deliberate, commanding. "Protection," he said simply. "And perhaps… a partnership."
She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or flee. "A partnership?"
"Yes." He leaned in, voice low. "You need to be safe from Romano. He's relentless. You need someone who can shield you, someone who can ensure your disappearance isn't permanent. And I…" He paused, studying her carefully. "…I have reasons to maintain appearances as well. My board expects stability. My public expects charm and composure. They believe I am to marry. I am not. But I can use a fiancée. Someone who can help me manage the illusion."
Isabella's mind spun. A deal? Pretending to be someone's fiancée for protection? It sounded reckless. Dangerous. Yet every instinct whispered that it might be her only chance.
"And you would… protect me?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Marco's gaze was steady, unflinching. "Under my name, under my watch, you are untouchable. Alessandro would think twice before reaching for you. The press will spin it, your family will pause, and you will have time… to breathe."
Her throat tightened. Freedom. Finally, it was within reach, but at what cost?
"I don't even know you," she said again, more to herself than to him.
"Yet here we are," Marco said, leaning back, his dark eyes never leaving hers. "You ran from a prison you never wanted. I offer you another, but one with a door you can open yourself. And a hand to guide you if you choose to step through."
Isabella studied him. He was nothing like Alessandro. No calculated cruelty, no expectation of submission only confidence, control, and the faintest hint of vulnerability beneath the polish.
Finally, she exhaled. "And if I say yes?"
"Then we play our roles," he said smoothly. "We are fiancées. The world sees a happy couple. You are safe. I maintain appearances. And at the end of the day…" He paused, a shadow of something darker flickering in his eyes. "…we each keep our freedom."
The words sounded like an escape hatch from the chaos of her life. She could almost imagine it: a world where she was alive, unseen, untouchable, and yet… perhaps, for the first time, in control of her own story.
Isabella lifted her chin. "All right," she said. "I'll do it."
Marco's smile was slow, deliberate, a mixture of triumph and admiration. "Excellent. Then it begins."
And as the Roman sun dipped below the skyline, painting the city gold, Isabella felt the first rush of hope, and the first flicker of something dangerous stirring in her chest: curiosity about the man who had just offered her freedom… and maybe something more.