Sofia adjusted the collar of her dress for the third time in the car's reflection.
"Stop fidgeting," Alessandro said quietly beside her. "You'll make it worse."
She folded her hands on her lap. "You never said where we were going."
"My grandfather's estate. Private gathering. He wants to see us."
Her stomach tightened. "Why?"
"He wants to know when we're getting married," he said flatly. "And when we plan to give him great-grandchildren."
Sofia's lips parted. "You're not serious."
"I never joke about my grandfather," Alessandro replied grimly. "You'll understand when you meet him."
---
The Moretti patriarch's estate felt like stepping into another century—ornate columns, oil paintings of ancestors glaring from the walls, and guards who didn't smile.
Vittorio Moretti, Alessandro's grandfather, was waiting in the drawing room.
Sharp in a tailored black suit, with silvered hair and piercing eyes, he didn't need to speak to command the room. But when he did, his voice was low, cultured, and absolute.
"So," he said, rising slowly to greet them. "This is the girl."
Sofia curtsied slightly. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."
He offered his hand to kiss like a royal, eyes never leaving hers.
"Pretty. Polite. And foreign," he mused. "Let's hope your sons get their blood from Alessandro's side."
Sofia flinched. Alessandro stiffened beside her.
"She's fluent in Italian, Grandfather," he said tightly. "There's no need to speak over her."
Vittorio smiled, cold and knowing. "Good. Then she'll understand what's expected of her."
---
Dinner was held in a vaulted chamber beneath crystal chandeliers.
Surrounded by advisors, business allies, and older family members, Sofia felt the heat of a hundred scrutinizing eyes. Women examined her posture. Men speculated on her worth like stock prices. But no one spoke more plainly than Vittorio.
He raised his glass. "To legacy. To continuity. And to the future of the Moretti name."
The table echoed with glass clinks.
Then came the questions.
"Is the wedding date set?"
"Will it be here or in Palermo?"
"Is she fertile?"
Sofia nearly choked on her wine.
"She's sitting right here," Alessandro said coldly.
Vittorio leaned forward, elbows on the table. "The engagement is dragging. Your mother was pregnant with you within the first year of her vows. You've had months."
Sofia's fingers curled under the tablecloth.
"Everything takes time," Alessandro said through gritted teeth.
"Time is a luxury we don't indulge in this family," Vittorio replied. "You are the heir. She is the vessel. Make it official. Make it productive."
Sofia felt something inside her go very still.
She turned her head so no one would see the tears fighting to surface.
---
After dinner, she slipped out onto a dark balcony, the night wind sharp against her arms.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
But she stared out over the city lights, willing her breath to stay steady.
Alessandro found her ten minutes later.
"You disappeared."
"I needed air," she whispered.
"I didn't know he'd say all that. Not in front of you."
"I did." She laughed softly, without humor. "I could see it in his eyes the moment I walked in. I'm not a person to him. I'm a womb."
Alessandro winced. "He's old. He doesn't change."
"That's not an excuse," she said quietly.
"No. It's not."
A silence fell between them. Not hostile, but too heavy to be ignored.
"I'm sorry," he added after a moment. "For letting him speak to you like that. I should've said more."
She turned her eyes to his. "Then why didn't you?"
Alessandro didn't answer.
He didn't know how.
And she was too tired to wait for a reply.