Emma hung the last garland on her tree, which looked as though it had caught a bad cold. A few needles fell at her feet before she even finished walking around it. She looked at them, wondering if her situation could get any worse. She flicked one of the ornaments, and it swung cheerfully; then a second tuft of needles fell to the ground. "I'm sincerely sorry, Miss Brok." The doctor's words had been ringing in her ears for nearly a week. Emma massaged her temples to make them disappear before a new wave of panic invaded her body, already sore from the terrible news. Just a few weeks ago, she was dancing in the middle of her living room, bursting with joy over the pregnancy she had dreamed of for so long. She had no idea that this baby was the child of one of the most formidable men in Italy-the ruler of the most influential dynasty in the country. Emma paced around her small living room, shuffling her feet. She stopped in front of her laptop to look for the umpteenth time at the photo of the man from behind, partially hidden by two others. In truth, the photo was of no help at all. She let out a muffled gasp and resumed pacing. What should she do? What were her options? To stay silent? After all, she was the only one who knew, and the doctor who had inseminated her was risking his career if he ever mentioned it. His mistake was severe; he had even begged her not to say a word. Emma crossed her arms and stared at her Christmas tree, tilting her head to the side, as if it held the answer to her problem. This grave error had massive consequences for her and for the man who had provided the sperm sample-intended strictly to be kept for future use or in the event of his death, to ensure an heir and continue his family line. Emma felt a surge of nausea and rushed into the bathroom. She sat in front of the toilet for a long time, weighing the pros and cons. Two solutions presented themselves: First: Tell the man the whole truth. Second: Remain silent, pray to the heavens that he would never miss the sample that now rested in her womb, and raise the baby while forgetting this whole ordeal. She stood up, holding onto the sink to face her reflection-that of a completely lost young woman who no longer knew what the right choice was. To make the right decision, Emma needed to meet this man. Only then would she choose. With a tender, protective gesture, she placed her hands on her still-flat stomach. Her heart began to race as she tried to map out a plan for tomorrow. To even attempt to see him, she had to enter the property-a compound that was surely secured from every possible angle. Emma had to get past the gate at all costs. *** The next day, when she finally located the famous Palazzo, Emma knew she had no chance of getting through the large gate perched high on a hill. Lowering her car window, she took a breath of fresh air coming off the nearby sea. She suddenly wanted to flee the place-to run away from reality. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, keeping her eyes glued to the large white gate in the hope that fate would side with her. Unfortunately, after half an hour, nothing had happened. Emma rubbed her temples, turned the ignition, and drove down the restricted lane to circle the property. Once on the other side, Emma got out of her car, the door squeaking shut behind her. Despite it being winter, the afternoon was filled with floral scents, with no snowflakes to suggest that the year-end holidays were approaching. She readjusted her coat and walked toward the outer walls. Channeling an intruder, she treaded carefully through the tall grass and approached the closed gate, peeking through a narrow gap that offered a glimpse of a beautiful green lawn. "You are on private property!" At the sound of the voice, Emma startled and spun around to face the stranger shouting at her. Her blood froze instantly when she found herself face-to-face with a man who looked strikingly like the one she had been trying in vain to meet. Tall and dark, his elegant black suit failed to hide his athletic frame. When she managed to look into his eyes, she was left speechless. His face bore features of a hard, unyielding character-hostile, masculine, proud, and icy. His thick black eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth set in a grimace reminiscent of a ticking time bomb. As he took a harsh step forward, the brilliant glare of the sun reflected on his bronze, distinctly Italian features. Without a doubt, the father of her baby was standing right in front of her. By some miracle, she managed to pull herself together. "I know, I'm sorry... I got lost and I..." "You often lose your way down restricted lanes?" he interrupted, his voice as sharp as a cleaver. Emma swallowed hard. "No... no, of course not. I was just curious... and lost." Her answer reignited his anger, and Emma cursed herself for saying it. "Journalist?" he deduced, grabbing her by the arm. She suppressed a grimace and raised her head to look at him. "Not at all!" His grip tightened, sending a jolt of shock up to her elbow and flushing her face crimson. "Then what are you doing here?" he asked insidiously. His voice was so low and harsh it made her sick to her stomach. "I'm sorry I walked down your driveway... It's a... a terrible misunderstanding," she stammered, casting her eyes downward. "Your name. Immediately!" he demanded, shaking her slightly. Her vision blurred, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. "Emma Brok..." He tilted his broad head toward hers, making her feel as though she were suffocating. Flustered, she gathered the strength to lift her chin. His piercing gaze held so much hostility that her lips parted to draw in a breath while he unashamedly sized her up. There was nothing gentle or kind about him. "I could have you arrested for trespassing," he stated smoothly. "But you won't, will you?" she asked, her face pale. So this was the father of her child? Emma hated herself for listening to her heart and stepping onto this property just to meet him. Now, her choice was made... She just had to find a way to escape. "I arrived in Tuscany not long ago. I'm English. I wanted to take a walk and I got lost." Emma paused, but he remained completely cold and unmoved. "When I saw your Palazzo, I was curious and just wanted to admire it. Please forgive me, sir..." He released her arm and drew himself up. Emma massaged her aching elbow, suppressing a wince. "Leave quickly, before I change my mind!" he barked. She backed away from him without looking back. She never would have imagined that a man so devilishly attractive could be so contemptuous and ruthless. Emma scrambled into her car, shooting a furtive glance in his direction. Seeing him approach her vehicle with clenched fists, she shifted into gear, squealed her tires on the gravel, and slammed her foot on the accelerator. She nearly lost control of the car when her gaze met his in the side mirror. Her heart pounded wildly. Leaving the private lane behind, she pulled up to a stop sign to catch her breath. "Lord..." she whispered in a strangled voice. To her dismay, she had no time to recover from the horrifying encounter before a ferocious engine began to roar behind her. A black Lamborghini was riding her bumper. Emma switched on her turn signal and moved into the left lane. A flush of heat rose to her cheeks as the Lamborghini followed her. "Keep calm, Emma..." she instructed herself, carefully merging back onto the main road. He was following her simply to confirm she wasn't a journalist, and Emma knew she had to head to a neutral location-never to her actual home. There was no way she would let this caveman find out where she lived. For her safety, and that of her baby. As the black car tailed her, Emma maintained a steady, reasonable speed so as not to give him further cause for suspicion. If she sped up and turned this into a chase, she would be completely finished. Thank heavens, a parking spot opened up at the last second. Emma signaled at the last moment to pull over to the right, forcing the man to brake. Inhaling painfully, she grabbed her bag and book, knowing she had to pretend she was completely oblivious to his presence. She stepped out of the car, forcing her stride to look relaxed. The black Lamborghini remained idle in the middle of the street, blocking traffic, yet no one dared to honk. Emma crossed the road toward a nearby restaurant, sat on the terrace, and forced a smile for the waiter. "An orange juice, please..." At that moment, the roar of the Lamborghini echoed through the narrow street lined with beautiful purple flowers, its acceleration so aggressive that the engine rattled the air. Emma closed her eyes and let out a shaky sigh. She could feel her heart pounding in her temples, sweat breaking out on her forehead as if she had just run a marathon. She felt like a deer cornered by a hunter. Emma held back a tear. Now she knew which of the two paths she would take. She would choose the second one... *** Five weeks later: "Again!" Emma applied the foundation, patting it gently onto the model's face. "More!" She patted faster, trying to mask the exhaustion from the night before. She was nursing a hangover, the remnants of a wild night out written all over her face. "Would you like a glass of water?" she offered politely. "What I want is for you to cover my dark circles, you sluggish girl! Give me that!" The model snatched the powder compact from her hands to apply it herself. Emma swallowed a barrage of curse words and picked up the hair straightener. "It's obvious you're just an intern! Look at this!"

The model was on the verge of a full-blown tantrum, but Emma chose to ignore her haughty tone and silently focused on styling her hair. She let the warmth of the straightener ground her. Upon touching it, Emma noticed the hair was rough and severely damaged. "Should I add curls?" she asked, looking at the model's reflection in the mirror. The woman let out a harsh groan to express her annoyance. "Good grief, who paired me with such a dunce! Of course you curl it!" Emma set to work forming the curls, fighting the urge to burn the woman's hair, forcing herself to maintain a professional demeanor. When she had accepted this internship, Emma hadn't expected the insemination to take hold so quickly. Now, her belly was growing-fifteen weeks had passed, and the reality of her pregnancy was setting in. A smile touched her lips-the smile of a fulfilled young woman. Her dream was taking shape a little more every day, and nothing around her could take that happiness away. "Let's go! Everyone in position!" The photographer's sharp voice snapped her out of her pleasant daydream. Emma finished the final curl just as the lead model burst up from her chair. "Damn it, Sharon, you have dark circles like my grandfather!" the photographer called out, tracking her with his eyes as she walked past him. Emma suppressed a laugh, clearing her throat and turning away so her smile wouldn't be seen. *** Azzario exhaled a long sigh as the elevator doors slid open. Before they had even parted fully, he strode out with a brisk, determined step. He detested places like this; the overwhelming scent of perfume and cosmetics was almost unbearable. To conceal his irritation, Azzario maintained a cold, impassive mask as he walked toward the deafening music. Azzario was emerging from a long, agonizing depression that had lasted a full year-one that had nearly driven him to suicide. He had managed to drag himself out of it only by immersing himself completely in his work and his family's empire. Over the painful months that followed, Azzario had built a fortress around himself, insulating his heart from his own emotions. He was well aware that he could come across as ruthless... even inhuman. He pushed the studio door open and stepped to the side, hands shoved into his pockets. To his dismay, the photo shoot seemed to be dragging on indefinitely. He restrained himself from interrupting and observed Sharon with a critical eye. At that moment, he wondered why he had ever taken her on as a mistress. Likely just to escape the sheer boredom he had felt in bed for months, though he now realized he had acted too hastily. Even for a brief fling, he was not ready to let a woman back into his life or his intimacy. Despite his outward indifference, Sharon stirred up memories that were far too painful. She was just like the rest-calculating, arrogant, self-assured, and born into privilege. Unfortunately, she was the type he had to deal with every single day. To mask his annoyance, Azzario turned his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, his gaze locked onto a delicate figure in the distance. He narrowed his eyes, his blood surging faster through his veins... Without a doubt, standing right there was the little English girl who had trespassed onto his property weeks ago. He would have recognized her anywhere. Her fair complexion, slender frame, and striking blue eyes were impossible to miss. Her dark hair was down this time, held back by a butterfly clip, cascading over her chest with subtle reddish highlights in the light. He never expected to see this young woman again... Yet seeing her here dissolved any remaining suspicions he had harbored. She clearly had nothing to do with journalism. Her blue eyes still held that familiar flicker of panic-like a doe trapped in a hunter's gaze-yet they were undeniably full of life. As she turned fully in his direction, unaware of his presence, Azzario straightened instantly as his eyes caught a detail that was impossible to overlook. Her stomach was softly rounded, outlined beneath a simple tank top. Immediately, a pang of guilt struck him as dark memories washed over him like a crashing wave. Had she been pregnant when he confronted her so harshly? Azzario clenched his jaw and took a step forward to get a better look at her stomach. He felt an unprecedented surge of softness toward this stranger. He needed to pull himself together immediately! "Who unplugged the cable?!" The photographer's sharp outburst cut through his thoughts. Azzario tore his eyes away from the young woman to shoot a brief glance at the man. "Find me that cable!" Azzario shifted his focus back to the Englishwoman. She had vanished. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and began scanning the studio floor. To his utter astonishment, he spotted her crawling on all fours in his direction, tracing the power cords with her eyes. "Dios mío," he muttered under his breath. No one else seemed to care about her-or her condition. Pregnant. Deciding to put an end to what he viewed as an absurd situation, Azzario placed his foot firmly on the cable. When she reached him, blocked by his shoe, she tugged at the cord without looking up. "Could you move your foot, sir?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. Azzario didn't budge until she finally lifted her gaze. Her wide blue eyes expanded with shock, giving him a fleeting sense of satisfaction. Her pale skin flushed crimson, hiding her light freckles. "Look how we meet again..."

The next day, as the massive wrought-iron gates swung open before her, Emma stood completely breathless. The sprawling estate, steeped in classic Italian architecture, proudly raised its grand facade amid a lush expanse of greenery. Stepping forward in slow motion, she clutched Sergio's professional equipment tightly under her arm. A wide, corbelled stone staircase led up to a magnificent terrace bordered by a shimmering swimming pool. The ancient facade of the Palazzo possessed the timeless, stately elegance of a historic mansion. A cool morning breeze carried the rich, sweet scent of blooming coastal flowers across the grounds. Emma lingered for a fraction of a second near a cluster of bright daffodils, instinctively reaching out a hand to touch a petal before a sharp, commanding voice snapped her back to reality. The moment she caught sight of him framed within the solid oak main doorway, a cold wave of dread washed over her. She knew instantly that she was walking straight into the lion's den. Her face was a traitor; every shred of panic and terror she felt was mirrored transparently in her eyes. Right at that moment, she was projecting a toxic mix of fear and deep shame—standing right here before the ruthless man who remained entirely oblivious to the fact that she carried his child beneath her coat. A sudden flutter in her chest made her miss a step. She stumbled, but a strong hand intervened just in time, sliding firmly between Sergio and Sharon to steady her, as if he had anticipated her fall all along. His iron grip clamped tightly around her wrist before he clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. "Would you be so kind as to pay attention to your employees, Mr. Lishiny?" Looking thoroughly flustered, the photographer offered an apologetic smile and turned toward her. "Forgive me, my dear. Give me the bag," Sergio said, instantly suiting action to the word. Azzario Dantes' hand finally released her wrist. Emma rubbed the spot defensively as she climbed the stone steps, refusing to meet his piercing gaze. Stepping inside the grand residence, she finally dared to lift her eyes. The interior was breathtaking—exquisitely refined, adorned with master paintings and priceless antique furnishings. There was no mistaking it; she had stepped straight into the inner sanctum of one of Italy's most powerful dynasties. Suddenly, a suffocating wave of panic gripped her. She felt like she had willingly thrown herself into the jaws of a wolf, especially when those dark, intense eyes found hers once more, unhidden and unapologetic. The entire situation was as surreal as it was terrifying, and she alone was to blame for it. "Welcome home," he said smoothly, gesturing for them to follow him down the expansive hallway. Emma lagged behind by a few steps, needing a moment to catch her erratic breath, steady her nerves for the upcoming photo shoot, and steel herself against the overpowering presence of the man leading them. "I suppose this living room will be perfect?" Azzario remarked casually, rolling back the cuffs of his crisp shirt. "It's absolute perfection, Mr. Dantes," Sergio answered enthusiastically, setting down his heavy gear. "Your Palazzo is truly magnificent." "Thank you," he replied flatly, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as the young Englishwoman slipped quietly past them, keeping her hands neatly clasped behind her back. Her deep reserve and palpable shyness were entirely foreign to him. He found himself inexplicably drawn to her guarded demeanor, wanting to peel back the layers of her intimidation—a reaction completely unheard of for a man accustomed solely to confident, aggressive women. "Emma? The umbrellas, please." Moving instantly, she carefully unrolled one of the photography umbrellas and positioned it behind the velvet armchair. Azzario followed her every movement with an unblinking gaze, his eyes dropping intentionally toward her flat stomach, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in the back of his throat. "Where are the rest of your family members?" Sergio inquired politely while checking his camera settings. "My mother is unfortunately unable to attend, and my brother had pressing matters elsewhere. I will be the sole representative of the family for this portrait," Azzario answered coldly. "Perhaps we could angle the chair closer to the window to capture the natural light?" the young Englishwoman suggested in a soft, hesitant voice. "Yes, that's a brilliant idea, Emma..." Sergio muttered, immediately repositioning the heavy chair. Azzario forced himself to soften his rigid posture slightly before lowering himself into the armchair. Even so, the dark, brooding cloud that perpetually shadowed his features was impossible to miss—an underlying, smoldering fury that seemed to consume him from within. Quietly, Emma slipped away toward the grand archway that divided the dining hall, choosing to observe the shoot from a safe distance. Azzario Dantes sat with such rigid tension that not a single muscle in his face relaxed into a smile. She couldn't help wondering what past traumas or cruel realities had stripped him of warmth, turning him into a man so thoroughly cold and unyielding. Had he been like this his entire life? "A slight smile, Mr. Dantes, if you please?" Sergio coaxed gently. It was a complete waste of breath. The man remained carved in stone, much to the growing despair of the photographer. "I practically never smile," Azzario replied in a low, throaty rumble devoid of any humor. Sergio wisely chose not to push the matter further, resuming his work without expecting miracles from a man who posed like an ancient statue. A wave of nausea suddenly churned in Emma's stomach. Pulling her arms tightly around her midsection, she turned and slipped quietly down the hallway to escape. The sickness wasn't physical; it was born from the suffocating weight of shame crushing her chest. Nothing was going according to any rational plan. She loathed herself for being trapped in this house, standing mere feet away from the man who had inadvertently given her a child, yet whose icy demeanor built an impassable wall against the truth she desperately needed to confess. And that lingering, austere look he had cast at her waistline yesterday—it had made her painfully aware that children held zero space in his ruthless, calculated future. That was undoubtedly why he had deposited his sample in the first place: a cold, clinical insurance policy to secure a bloodline only if forced by absolute necessity. Swallowing the bitter lump in her throat, Emma forced herself to stop pacing and approached a magnificent, dark-hued oil painting hanging on the wall. The canvas radiated no joy whatsoever; it depicted only the lonely silhouette of a man staring out at a churning sea painted in shades as deep and desolate as the ocean itself. As she drifted closer to examine the artwork, her eyes caught a gleaming wooden cabinet standing nearby. Intrigued, her fingertips brushed lightly against an antique, gilded folding fan resting upon it, her eyes lighting up with sudden fascination. "Careful. It's remarkably fragile..." Emma suppressed a startled gasp that could easily have knocked the delicate object to the floor, whirling around to find the master of the house leaning casually against the hallway wall, watching her with an unreadable, enigmatic expression. "I... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to touch it..." Pushing off the wall, he strode toward her with long, deliberate strides. He leaned in close, his broad frame towering over her as he carefully unhooked the antique fan from its mount. "It belonged to my mother," he explained, his voice dropping into an unexpectedly bitter register. "She is simply waiting for the day she can finally hand it down to the future Madame Dantes." He paused, a cynical edge sharpening his tone. "As if that day will ever actually arrive." With a flick of his wrist, he unfolded the delicate silk fan and held it out, placing it directly into her trembling hands. With extreme care, Emma traced the intricate gilded edges with her fingertips. "Yet... you have Sharon," she blurted out before her better judgment could stop her, her voice trembling with sudden shyness. "She would surely make a fitting wife." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "I could never marry a woman like that." When she slowly raised her heavy gaze to meet his, a dark shadow veiled her already sorrowful expression. "You... you truly don't want to build a family? To fill this massive Palazzo with the sound of children's laughter?" The question hung heavy in the air, loaded with a desperate, hidden intent. "This conversation is over, Miss Brok," he stated curtly, snatching the fan from her hands and returning it firmly to its stand. Yet, despite his abrupt dismissal, Emma already had her answer.