His father had been on the balcony when he told him about the arranged marriage he set up behind his back. The evening air was heavy with cigar smoke, the skyline stretching gold and steel beyond the estate's walls.

"You'll marry her," his father said, the words flat and final. "Her father's a decent man. Not wealthy, but dependable. This arrangement will secure... certain understandings."

Darius didn't ask what understandings. He'd learned long ago that "family business" was just a polite term for leverage.

"She's young," his father went on, pouring another drink. "Full of that naïve energy you once had. Maybe she'll be a better influence than I was." The chuckle that followed was more like gravel scraping metal. "You'll thank me in time."

He didn't thank him. He didn't even nod. He just left the balcony without a word.

He saw her for the first time two weeks later. Not at a formal meeting, but by accident — crossing the east garden after a long morning with Enzo. She was alone, crouched beside one of the smaller fountains, tipping crumbs toward a pair of sparrows that hopped along the stone rim.

Noticing him, she straightened immediately — posture still, hands clasped, face composed. The obedient act of someone who'd been taught how to behave in front of the wrong kind of man. But Darius had already seen it — the wide, easy smile she'd worn for those birds, the kind that lit her face like a lamp.

She never looked at him long that day. He didn't mind.

The wedding had been clean, almost sterile. A courthouse, a handful of witnesses, and two fathers shaking hands like they'd just traded livestock. She wore a simple dress, hair pinned back without fuss. No veil. No flowers.

When the vows were spoken, she met his eyes just long enough to get the words out. Her voice didn't shake. And though she didn't smile at him, she didn't frown either. A middle ground, perfectly maintained — but Darius kept remembering the garden.

The reception was a lunch in a private dining room. She sat quietly at one end of the table, answering polite questions with polite words. Only once did her mask slip — when the server brought dessert, and she reached for the smallest tart like a child picking a favorite candy. She caught herself instantly, but he saw it.

Enzo caught it too. Later, in the car, he leaned over and muttered, "She's a little spark under all that prim-and-proper. Bet she's hell in a kitchen when no one's looking."

Darius didn't answer. But he thought about the birds.

The coast was pale and wide, the air salted and warm. You were walking alone along the shoreline, small against the vastness, dress hem dancing in the wind. Not hesitant, not sad — just moving at your own pace, like you belonged here without permission.

From the road above, Darius leaned against the black sedan, phone in hand, posture easy enough to pass for boredom. Enzo stood nearby, sunglasses tilted toward the view.

"She doesn't look miserable," Enzo said at last. "Guess that's a good sign."

Darius's eyes followed her as she stepped into the foam, letting the tide wrap her ankles.

"You've barely said ten words to her since the wedding," Enzo went on. "You planning to keep it that way? Makes for a real heartwarming honeymoon."

"I'm here because my father wanted this done. That's all."

Enzo smirked. "And yet here you are, standing like a watchdog while she plays in the water."

Darius didn't answer. She crouched suddenly, hand brushing the surface of the sea, head tilted like she'd found something worth keeping.

"You don't even like beaches," Enzo added, as if he'd proven a point.

"I'm here for the quiet."

"Quiet," Enzo echoed. "With her around? Give it a week."

Darius finally glanced at him — a slow, flat look. "Enzo."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Enzo laughed, unbothered.

Darius turned back to the shore. She was moving again, letting the waves chase her steps. She didn't look back to see if anyone was watching. And still, he stayed until she was just a small shape against the far curve of the coast.