Chapter 2 Truth differd

Chapter 2

The sand beneath my bare feet held the sun's warmth as twilight bled into star-dusted night. The beach festival's music thrummed in my chestraw, honest, everything my life in Milan wasn't. I should have been reviewing contracts or enduring another suffocating dinner discussing "legacy" with my father and brothers.

Instead, I was in Positano with a cold Peroni, tasting freedom.

That's when I saw her.

Bianca was a study in captivating contrasts—dark elegance and simmering intensity amid the chaotic glow of the festival. She wasn't just beautiful; she was a question I felt compelled to answer. I moved toward her before my brain processed the decision, drawn by an invisible thread.

Our first kiss against the roaring sea was pure fire. A collision of two people seeking solace. She spoke of feeling caged by expectations, the suffocating weight of family duty. I heard my own frustrations echoed in every word. The truth perched on my tongue: I know exactly what you mean. My name is Alessandro DeSanti.

When she looked at me with hope I hadn't earned and called me Alesso Santi, I let the lie stand. I wrapped it around me like a cloak.

Hours later, I'm parked above the Amalfi Coast, watching her climb from my Maserati. Her hand finds mine without hesitation, fingers lacing through my own. She'd texted her best friend that she was about to make "bad choices."

A hollow feeling opens in my gut. She has no idea I'm the worst choice she could make.

The moment the villa door swings shut, the outside world ceases to exist. She turns to me in the dim light, all fire and barely contained need. When she rises on her toes and kisses me, my control shatters.

We tumble onto the master bed, the world reduced to the space between us. Her movements are frantic, desperate—then she pauses. Her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, chest rising rapidly.

"I need to tell you something," she whispers, trembling with vulnerability.

Cold dread pools in my stomach. This is it. She'll confess something that provides an escape.

"I'm supposed to get married," she breathes. "An arranged marriage. To a man named Alessandro DeSanti."

My name hits me like a physical blow. Of all the women in all the cities, I'd been drawn to the one contractually bound to me.

"You don't want to marry him?" I ask, voice carefully controlled.

"I don't even know him, my family thinks it's a good match the Morenas and DeSantis united like medieval houses." Her eyes fill with raw honesty. "I want to choose. For once, I want to be the one who chooses."

She wants to choose me. Alesso Santi. The lie. She's seeking refuge from my own shadow.

I should stop everything. Come clean. But if she knew the truth, that hope in her eyes would shatter.

"If we do this, there's no going back," I say roughly.

"I know." She pulls me down, and truth is lost in her kiss.

Her lips are urgent against mine, her hands sliding beneath my shirt with a hunger that matches my own. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her further onto the bed. The moonlight streaming through the windows paints her skin silver as I peel away her dress, revealing lace that makes my breath catch.

"You're beautiful," I murmur against her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

"Less talking more action," she gasps, arching into me.

Our clothes disappear in a tangle of desperate hands and shared breath. When I finally settle between her thighs, she's trembling, her fingers digging into my shoulders with delicious pressure.

"Alesso," she breathes my borrowed name like a prayer.

I pause, looking into her eyes. "Tell me you want this."

"Yes. Please..."

I claim her mouth as I push inside, swallowing her cry. She's perfect—tight and wet and mine in this stolen moment. We move together in a rhythm that feels ancient, necessary. Her nails rake down my back as I drive deeper, harder, chasing something we both desperately need.

"Don't stop," she gasps, her body clenching around me.

I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head, watching her come undone beneath me. The sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, completely lost in pleasure—is almost enough to undo me. When she shatters, crying out my false name, I follow her over the edge.

Later, in the quiet hours, she traces patterns on my chest. She tells me about her real passion: community development, football academies for disenfranchised youth in Cape Town. The way her face lights up—it's not just work. It's her soul's purpose.

The final devastating piece clicks into place. She's not just a good match for the DeSanti portfolio. She's perfect for me.

"What do you do, Alesso Santi?" she asks sleepily.

"Consulting. Business strategy." The lie comes easily now.

Her expression softens with trust, and guilt washes over me. I'm building something real on catastrophic deception.

I hold her closer, memorizing everything. I can't be Alesso forever. When she returns to Cape Town for the charity gala, she'll meet her future husband.

Alessandro DeSanti. Me.

For now, I'll be selfish. I'll memorize the scent of her skin, hoard this happiness, knowing that when truth shatters this mirage, she won't just be running from an arranged marriage.

She'll be running from me the man who loved her under a borrowed name.