The Famous Ex Boyfriend

The car moved slowly along the dirt road that cut through the vineyards. On both sides, the vines seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, an orderly sea of greens and ochres that smelled of promises and buried secrets.

Martina, my younger sister, squeezed my hand with a mix of excitement and nervousness. She, with her dreams still intact; I, with mine already well packed into boxes of cynicism and ambition.

"You know?" she whispered, with that voice that still believed good things always come. "This place is amazing. It looks like it's straight out of a movie."

I smiled, feeling triumphant, though my mouth refused to reveal what I really felt. Luxury, yes. But also a cage. This estate wasn't a fairy tale castle, but a trap dressed in elegance, and very soon I would be in charge.

"A beautiful prison," I said sarcastically. "Two months here, Martina. Two months to get to know the family before the wedding."

She looked at me, confused.

"Why?"

"Because for me, this isn't about getting to know the family. I'm here to gain ground and enjoy everything that will one day be mine: the ring, the fortune, the last name. I don't care if Marco likes me or not."

Martina swallowed and turned her gaze to the landscape, which seemed eternal.

The Leone estate was a monument to control. Every stone, every branch pruned from the vines, every velvet curtain in the windows, was there to remind you who was in charge and who obeyed. I was about to become just another cog in the machine.

When we reached the massive wrought-iron gate, a woman with an impassive expression greeted us. Her impeccable uniform and cold eyes didn't hide the judgment that no one, like her, bothered to conceal.

"Welcome home, ladies," she said in a voice trying to be polite, but barely managed to sound courteous.

As I settled into the room assigned to me, I noticed Martina couldn't stop admiring every detail: the antique furniture, the carpet muffling the sound of our steps, the chandeliers hanging with dim lights that illuminated the space with an almost spectral aura.

As soon as we entered the dining room, the family was already gathered. It wasn't a large group, but it was enough to make you feel watched.

Marco was there, perfectly dressed, with a restrained smile that didn't reach his eyes. When he saw me, he nodded slightly, without getting too close.

The tension between us was almost palpable, although most of the others seemed not to notice or preferred to pretend everything was normal.

Amid whispers and exchanged glances, the conversation revolved around the wedding preparations, the menu, the dress, and the hours left before the rehearsal.

But I couldn't stop watching. Not them, but myself in that broken reflection of what I wanted to be. Clara, the woman who agreed to marry a man she barely knew, not for love, but for a promise of stability and power.

Suddenly, a tall and silent man entered the room. His steps were firm, his bearing imposing. It was Nicolo, Marco's older brother. His gaze crossed the room and stopped on me as if weighing every unspoken word.

He didn't speak, didn't smile, just nodded with a gravity that chilled my blood.