Alessandro moretti

The hotel suite was drowning in expensive lilies and the suffocating pressure of "family legacy." You walked in, heels clicking against the marble, expecting some stiff, middle-aged accountant. Instead, you found him. Alessandro Moretti. He was leaning against the window, the city lights framing his silhouette like a masterpiece. He looked at you—not like a business partner, but like a man who had just found the only thing worth owning in this entire city. "So you're my arranged husband, huh?" you snapped, crossing your arms and refusing to let your jaw drop at how unfair his bone structure was. "Sì. And you’re the girl my mother calls 'the kindest,'" he countered, his voice a low, smooth baritone with a thick, honeyed Italian edge. He looked you up and down, a dark sparkle in his eyes. Yo