Adriano didn't need reminders that his life was controlled by everyone but himself.
But when his mother called that morning, he felt it anew.
"Dinner tonight," she said, calm and unbending. "Lucia Bianchi. Eight o'clock sharp."
"I never agreed to this," Adriano muttered, leaning against the cold marble of his kitchen counter.
"You didn't refuse," his mother replied lightly. "And she is delightful. Charming. Elegant. Exactly what a Moretti son should consider."
Adriano's jaw tightened. "I'm not interested."
"You'll change your mind once you meet her," she said, clicking off. The line went dead.
He exhaled slowly, a practiced, controlled motion. She didn't understand him. She never had. And yet, she expected him to follow her carefully laid plans.
---
Lucia arrived at the restaurant on time. Not five minutes early. Not five minutes late. Exactly at eight o'clock, dressed in a cream silk blouse and an A-line skirt that looked effortless, even as it had clearly cost more than a month's rent for most people.
She smiled broadly the moment she saw him. "Adriano! You look… wow. Even more handsome in person."
He gave a polite nod. "Lucia."
She laughed a high, rehearsed sound, like a bell announcing her presence. "Oh, you must be exhausted from work! I can't imagine being so busy."
Adriano noted, silently, the way she didn't ask about his projects, the company, or anything meaningful. Her questions were rehearsed, her smiles carefully measured. On the surface, she was perfection. But beneath it… there was something he didn't like.
Her confidence wasn't natural.
It was inherited. Taught. Purchased.
Lucia prattled on about charity events, social circles, her travels, and her father's influence. Each word polished, precise, heavy with implication. She leaned forward across the table, hands neatly folded, eyes shining. "I've already planned our next few outings, Adriano. Lake Como, Venice, the opera…"
He sipped his water slowly, deliberately, watching the cracks form in her flawless presentation. Her optimism was too eager, her cheerfulness artificial, almost theatrical. She didn't see him. She saw the title he carried, the lifestyle, the image everything except the man behind the name.
---
A waiter accidentally brushed against her chair.
"Careful!" she hissed softly, but firmly. "This dress isn't cheap."
The apology was rushed, genuine, but her frown made Adriano tighten his jaw. Subtle cruelty. Concealed under charm. Polished, controlled, but unmistakable to someone who noticed.
He realized something immediately: this was not the woman for him. Not for anything, not even as a social formality. She was neat, well-groomed, polite on the surface but self-centered, entitled, and sharp where it mattered least.
---
Lucia, of course, thought she was winning him over. Her laughter rang too loud, her stories too rehearsed, her compliments too frequent. Everything was too much, like someone trying desperately to fill a space she didn't belong in.
Adriano's patience held, as it always did. But beneath the calm, a thought settled: She would never challenge me. She would never intrigue me. She would only manage appearances.
And yet, for some reason, he couldn't stop thinking of a quiet French intern he hadn't chosen. The one who didn't try, who didn't push, who didn't speak unless necessary and still somehow commanded attention without meaning to.
---
When the dinner ended, Lucia leaned in expectantly. "Next time," she said sweetly, as if presuming it. "I already have ideas for our next meeting."
Adriano stepped back. "There won't be a next time," he said calmly.
Her smile faltered, just a fraction. The mask slipped slightly, revealing the irritation beneath her polished surface. He left the restaurant without another word.
---
Outside, Milan glimmered in the night, warm lights reflecting on the quiet streets. Adriano's thoughts lingered on two women: one carefully prepared by society to fit an image, and one who had arrived quietly, unexpectedly, and unsettled him in ways no one else had.
The contrast between them was impossible to ignore. And deep down, Adriano realized that the woman everyone expected him to notice the "perfect girl" was already fading from his mind.
Some women were chosen for appearances.
Some women chose themselves.
Élise Dupont had already done the latter, without even knowing it.
And Adriano Moretti had noticed.
Pedro Moretti had never learned how to stand beside his brother.
From childhood, there had always been a line between them invisible, but solid. Adriano was older, sharper, naturally commanding. Adults listened when he spoke. Teachers praised him without effort. Even silence seemed to bend toward him.
Pedro had tried, once.
He had tried being louder.
Then funnier.
Then easier to like.
None of it mattered.
Adriano never competed with him. That was the cruelest part. He simply existed and the world adjusted itself accordingly.
They grew up in the same house but lived in different worlds.
---
Now, years later, Pedro sat alone at a bar in Milan, watching his brother's face flicker across a television screen mounted above the shelves.
Moretti Group expands again.
Adriano Moretti: Milan's most eligible bachelor.
Pedro exhaled through his nose, lifting his glass but not drinking.
Even when Adriano wasn't present, he dominated the room.
Reporters analyzed his expressions. Paparazzi waited for glimpses of his private life. Women spoke about him as if proximity alone could change their futures.
Pedro had watched it happen his entire life.
At family events, people asked about Adriano's work before greeting Pedro. At galas, cameras shifted the moment his brother entered. Pedro would be standing right there smiling, charming, available and still overlooked.
Jealousy had taken root early.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Quiet enough to survive.
---
Pedro wasn't foolish. He knew better than to challenge Adriano openly. His brother had power, discipline, and the family's full confidence.
But even strong men had weaknesses.
And Pedro had learned patience.
He finished his drink slowly, mind replaying the last family dinner. Adriano's rigid posture. His refusal to engage. His irritation when their mother mentioned marriage.
And then the intern.
Élise.
Pedro's mouth curved slightly.
Adriano never noticed people beneath his rank. Never remembered names without reason. Yet Élise Dupont had changed something subtle in him not enough for outsiders to notice, but enough for Pedro to feel it.
The tension.
The attention.
The deviation from routine.
Pedro had caught Adriano watching her once. Just once. But that was all it took.
---
The next day, Pedro stopped by the company without announcement.
He wasn't there officially. He didn't need to be. His last name opened doors easily, even when his brother's presence closed them.
As he walked through the building, he noticed how people straightened at the sound of Moretti, expecting Adriano — and relaxing when they realized it was only Pedro.
Only.
Then he saw her.
Élise sat at her desk, focused, unaware, entirely herself. There was nothing forced about her no ambition on display, no calculated charm.
Pedro leaned against a pillar, observing.
You don't know it yet, he thought, but you're already between us.
He didn't hate her.
That surprised him.
What he felt instead was opportunity.
If Élise mattered to Adriano even slightly then she was a door Pedro could push open.
And if she didn't?
Pedro smiled.
Then he would make sure she did.
Some rivalries weren't loud or violent.
Some were built over years of silence, comparison, and neglect.
Pedro Moretti had lived in that silence long enough.
And he was done being invisible.
.
.
Pedro noticed Élise before she noticed him.
She was seated at her desk, shoulders slightly tense, eyes fixed on her screen. The office looked like it always did orderly, quiet, carefully controlled but Élise stood out simply by being new.
He walked over without thinking twice.
"Hey," he said.
Élise looked up, surprised then smiled. "Pedro. When did you get back?"
"Yesterday," he replied. "It's been, what… a week?"
"Almost," she said. "You vanished."
"I had meetings." He leaned lightly against her desk. "Unavoidable."
She laughed softly. "You always say that."
The ease between them was natural. Familiar. No effort required.
"How are you holding up?" he asked. "Still alive?"
"Barely," Élise said. "Your country works people like machines."
He smiled at that. "You'll adapt. Or break."
"That's comforting."
---
Around them, attention shifted.
Pedro noticed it the pauses, the sideways glances, the way conversations dipped when Élise laughed again. He didn't mind. If anything, it amused him.
People always needed stories.
"Did you finally figure out the tram system?" he asked.
"No," Élise said. "I get lost daily."
"I told you I'd help."
"You told me many things."
Their voices stayed low, but the closeness spoke louder than sound.
---
Pedro straightened, checking his watch.
"I should go," he said easily. "Before I become a permanent office decoration."
"Already?" Élise asked.
"Unfortunately." He smiled. "Text me later."
She nodded. "I will."
He walked away without urgency, without a backward glance.
---
The looks followed him.
Pedro felt them and didn't care.
If his presence unsettled people, that was their problem. Adriano's reaction whatever it might be held no emotional weight for him.
His brother had never cared what Pedro felt.
Pedro saw no reason to start now.
What interested him wasn't Adriano's irritation or curiosity.
It was leverage.
As he stepped into the elevator, Pedro's mouth curved slightly.
If people believed there was something between him and Élise, they would watch her more closely. Talk about her. Carry her name upward.
And if Adriano noticed?
Good.
Pedro didn't need his brother's approval.
He only needed his attention.