Chapter 2 The Wedding of Silence

The marriage proposal came out of nowhere.

It arrived not with flowers or candlelight, but with a formal email forwarded to Valeria by her stepmother's assistant. A brief message with attached documentation-contracts, legal agreements, family history, financial assets. It was cold, clinical, and disturbingly thorough.

The Levanis, a powerful business dynasty from Eastern Europe with deep roots in shipping, mining, and tech investments, had expressed interest in a "strategic alliance" with Casa Moretti. The proposal suggested a merger not only of business interests but of bloodlines. Specifically, a union between Valeria and their only son, Dario Levanis.

She had stared at the email for several minutes, heart pounding, mind scrambling to process the implications. She had never even heard of Dario Levanis outside of vague press coverage. A name occasionally floated in finance blogs and international news blurbs-always traveling, always conducting high-level business negotiations across continents. A ghost in tailored suits.

It made no sense. She was the CEO of one of the most iconic fashion houses in the world, not a pawn in a 19th-century aristocratic power play.

But Ivana made it sound like a blessing.

"You've spent too long alone, darling," she purred one evening, swirling a glass of red wine as she stood near the fireplace in her usual designer black. "You work too hard, fight too much. This alliance will ease your burden. It will secure Casa Moretti's future. Your father would be proud."

Valeria had heard that phrase too many times. Your father would be proud. Always spoken when someone wanted her to surrender something-her voice, her control, her independence.

"I don't need a husband to run my company," she had said flatly.

Ivana's smile remained fixed. "No, of course not. But you need allies. Real ones. And the board-well, they're nervous. They're looking for signs of strength, stability. This marriage would silence any doubts."

It was a clever manipulation, tying her personal life to her public power. And in a way, it worked. Valeria was tired-tired of fighting boardroom wars and leaking stories, of trying to hold together the crumbling legacy her father left behind while knives circled in the dark.

Still, she never agreed. Not really. She hadn't signed anything. There were discussions, tense dinners, vague mentions of next steps-but no definitive consent. At least, not from her.

And yet, two weeks later, she found herself in a garden in Tuscany, standing beneath a floral arch of white orchids and gold-dipped roses, wearing a bridal gown she hadn't chosen.

The wedding was beautiful in a surreal, theatrical way. The kind of ceremony that looks perfect in glossy magazines-picturesque villa, candlelit reception, artisanal food plated like art. But it was eerily intimate. Too intimate. Only close family, a few carefully selected media outlets, and a handful of silent guests in designer black.

Dario wasn't even there.

He "attended" via a live video call projected onto a large screen above the altar. A poor connection from Dubai, or so they said. He appeared only briefly-a grainy image of a man in a suit with dark hair and unreadable eyes, offering a polite smile and a scripted vow. Then the screen went dark, replaced by soft music and champagne flutes.

That should have been her first red flag. The groom missing his own wedding? In any other world, it would've halted everything. But by the time Valeria realized how strange it all was, it was too late.

The ceremony continued. Vows were read-none written by her. Rings were placed on fingers. Papers were handed to her to sign. She hesitated, frowning at the unfamiliar legal language.

"It's just a formality," Ivana whispered, taking her hand and guiding it to the page. "The prenup, darling. You'll want everything in writing."

Something in her stepmother's voice-a mix of urgency and indulgence set Valeria on edge, but the eyes of the guests were on her, the cameras flashing softly, and the weight of her gown made her feel as though she were moving through water.

She signed.

It wasn't until hours later, in the quiet of her private suite, that she opened her personal email and found a second document-an official marriage certificate filed and sealed. The date matched that day. Her name. Dario Levanis. Witnessed and notarized.

She stared at it for a long time, the blood draining from her face.

She hadn't been proposed to. She hadn't chosen. She hadn't agreed-not consciously, not freely. The wedding hadn't been a celebration. It had been a transaction. A performance. And she, the star of the show, had been given a script she didn't even know she was following.

They had married her off without her knowledge.

The realization settled into her bones like ice. This wasn't just betrayal. It was control-surgical, deliberate control. She wasn't just being undermined at work anymore. They were rewriting her life from the inside out, sealing her fate under the guise of family loyalty and strategic vision.

Alone in the room, Valeria stood in front of a mirror and looked at herself. The designer gown shimmered in the soft lamplight. Her makeup was flawless. Her hair curled like it had been painted into place. She looked every inch the perfect bride.

But behind her eyes, something cold and furious had begun to burn.

They thought they had won.

But the wedding of silence would not end in silence.

Not if she had anything to say about it.