The Wrong Romano - A Forbidden Romance Between Bloodline

Aminae

"Stand up straight."

The zipper bit into my spine as my mother tugged the back of the dress like it was a corset, not silk. She didn't wait for a response. Didn't need one. I wasn't expected to speak-just stand there and be pretty. Be presentable. Be the good daughter they spent years grooming into a bargaining chip.

I adjusted my shoulders, chin lifting instinctively, eyes blank. Obedient. Polished. Everything she needed me to be.

"Good," she said finally, stepping back to eye me like a sculptor might a statue. "You'll do."

I'll do. Like I was a thing. A token. A means to an end. And maybe I was.

Today was the first official "meeting" between both families. Not a date. Not a celebration. A transaction. My father called it dinner. I called it a presentation-because that's what it was. I was being presented to the Romanos like a product on display, dressed and pressed and perfumed for consumption.

"This is important, Aminae," my mother said, voice tightening. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Keep your hands still. Don't fidget with your ring. If you feel nervous, smile-it makes you look softer."

I said nothing. Just nodded.

She sighed, already frustrated. "You're too quiet."

"Would you rather I scream?" I asked.

Her eyes snapped to mine. "Don't start."

I didn't. I never did. That was the problem. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't beg them to stop when they told me I'd be marrying a man I barely knew. I just stood there and nodded. Like I'm doing now.

Because what choice did I have?

My bedroom was suffocating, too clean. My reflection in the mirror didn't look like me-soft champagne dress, hair pinned into something delicate and obedient, lips painted with a color I didn't pick. I looked like a doll left on a shelf too long.

Downstairs, I heard doors open. Male voices. Boots on marble. They were early.

I turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of my bed, ignoring the way the fabric pinched at my ribs. The silence felt heavier here-worse than the noise. My fingers drifted toward my ring, spinning it slowly. My mother would slap my hand if she saw.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'm not ready," I called, assuming it was her again.

"It's just me," said a voice, softer. Female. Not hers.

The door creaked open and Yasmin stepped in, heels clicking against the hardwood. My cousin. My only cousin. She shut the door behind her and immediately kicked off her shoes with a sigh.

"They're here," she whispered, flopping onto my bed like she owned it. "And guess what? Giovanni Romano brought a car I'm pretty sure costs more than this house."

I didn't answer. I didn't care about his car. Or his wealth. Or his cold reputation.

Yasmin sat up, tilting her head at me. "You okay?"

"No."

"Fair."

She scooted closer, her voice lowering. "If you really don't want this, there's still time."

"No, there isn't."

"You could run away. I'll help. We'll dye your hair. Get fake passports. You can be Aisha from Morocco. I'll be your French girlfriend. We'll open a bakery and sleep with foreigners."

I laughed. Genuinely, for the first time all day. "You can't even bake."

"Details," she smirked. "We'll figure it out."

But I didn't move. I didn't say yes. Because we both knew I wasn't running. I never had the guts. Yasmin watched me for a beat, then leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

"You deserve more than this," she said softly.

I didn't reply. Because I wasn't sure I did.

The knock at the door came again-this time my father's voice. "Amina. Downstairs. Now."

Yasmin rolled her eyes. "Showtime."

I stood, adjusted the dress again, and let her fix the loose strand near my ear. Then I exhaled. Quietly. Like it might keep the scream from spilling out.

Down the stairs, the world changed. Everything was pristine. Gold fixtures gleamed. The air smelled of cinnamon and money. My father stood near the entrance, tall and stony, his smile sharp around strangers.

My mother already had her polite mask on, nodding to the guests like a hostess in a mansion she'd sold her soul to enter. The Romano family was spread around the room-dark suits, expensive watches, practiced stillness.

And at the center of it all was him.

Giovanni Romano.

The man I would marry.

The man I barely knew.

The man I wasn't sure I could survive.

He turned as I descended the stairs, and I felt every eye in the room shift with me. Like I was the bride at a funeral.

His gaze didn't linger on my face. Just a flicker of approval, maybe. Or tolerance. Then he looked away.

No smile. No warmth.

Just expectation.

I reached the bottom of the stairs. My father placed a hand on the small of my back and leaned down.

"Smile."

So I did. Not because I wanted to. Because that was all I had left.

I stood there, one step away from the rest of my life.

The silence in the room pressed against my chest like a hand. Giovanni didn't move toward me. No greeting. No welcome. Just a quiet nod, like I was a contract clause he'd already read. The rest of the room remained politely still, as if I were glass.

My mother cleared her throat. "Shall we move to the dining room?"

The words were too soft to be casual. Too scripted to be real.

My father gestured forward, and like obedient actors, the procession began. The Romano family moved first-Giovanni and two men I didn't recognize, both older, both dressed like shadows with names that probably carried blood behind them. My parents followed. I trailed behind, careful, deliberate, like every step toward that dining table was another inch lost of whatever life I once thought I'd have.

The dining room was chilled from the air conditioning, but I still felt warm. Uncomfortable in my skin. Too aware of how the dress clung to me. How my heels echoed against marble floors like they were announcing me as merchandise.

Twelve chairs. One long table. Flowers I hadn't chosen. Gold-rimmed plates I'd never seen before. Everything designed to impress people who'd already made their decision.

I was seated next to Giovanni.

His chair scraped back smoothly as he took his seat, his movements precise. Effortless. He didn't speak to me. Not even a glance.

I sat, hands folded in my lap. I could feel my mother's eyes on me from across the table-waiting to see if I'd fidget, if I'd embarrass them, if I'd breathe wrong.

Conversation picked up quickly among the men-my father and Giovanni mostly. Business, politics, legacy. I caught the occasional word: distribution, territory, alliance. None of it had anything to do with me. And yet everything had to do with me.

I wasn't expected to speak. Just to sit there and smile like this was all I'd ever wanted.

Giovanni finally turned to me halfway through the first course. His voice was smooth, but mechanical.

"You're quieter than I expected."

My stomach tightened. "I wasn't sure I was expected to speak."

He hummed. Not a laugh. Not an insult. Just... noise. "You're young."

I blinked. "I'm nineteen."

"Still young."

He didn't say it kindly. He didn't say it cruelly. Just stated it, like it was fact. Like it meant something. I didn't ask how old he was, but I knew he was past thirty. Maybe thirty-two. Thirty-four. Not ancient, but... far enough from nineteen for the difference to feel like a wall.

He looked at me again, this time letting his eyes linger.

"You're pretty. That'll help."

Help with what? I wanted to ask. But I just nodded.

I sipped my water instead. The crystal glass was heavy in my hand. I could hear silverware clinking, voices low and careful. No one asked me what I liked. What I wanted to do. What I dreamed about when no one was watching. I wasn't here for my personality.

I was here because my name was worth something. My bloodline. My ability to produce heirs and behave well enough to not embarrass anyone at the table.

A man I didn't recognize leaned in and spoke to Giovanni quietly. Something in Italian. Fast. Sharp. Giovanni gave the barest tilt of his head. Dismissive.

The man looked at me once. Just once.

Then he laughed.

Giovanni didn't join him. He just went back to eating.

I stared down at my plate, the food untouched. I wasn't hungry. I was sick with nerves, but too well-trained to show it.

"Do you cook?" Giovanni asked suddenly.

I glanced up. "Sometimes."

"My mother did. When we were young. She said a woman who feeds a man controls his heart."

I gave a small smile. "And do you believe that?"

He looked at me with a strange flicker in his eyes. "I believe a woman's power lies in her silence."

There it was.

The sentence that made something in my chest turn cold.

Yasmin had been right-I did deserve more. But that didn't matter.

Because I wasn't getting more.

I was getting Giovanni Romano.

And that dinner was my final confirmation.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. I nodded. Smiled. Answered when prompted. They discussed my wedding dress. My future. My role. All of it like I wasn't even there.

By the time dessert was served, I felt like a ghost inside my own body.

And yet, somehow... it was only the beginning.