As the private jet lifted off the runway, I leaned back in the plush leather seat, forcing a smirk I didn't feel. 

I could sense Serafina beside me, her body tense despite the relaxed, affectionate act we were supposed to be putting on.

This entire charade felt like one bad joke after another.

The flight attendants had already seen us kiss when we boarded. 

A quick, heated press of lips meant to look intimate and passionate. It was convincing enough—I was good at playing the part.

But inside, every inch of me recoiled at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Pretending we were some kind of inseparable lovers when the truth was far more twisted and messy.

Nonna's instructions were clear.

We had to make it look real.

So here we were, pretending we couldn't keep our hands off each other for the sake of a woman who thought sending us to an island would solve everything.

I sighed quietly, catching Serafina's eye. She gave me a quick, knowing glance, and for a moment, something passed between us.

A shared understanding, maybe, or just a grim acceptance of the situation we were trapped in. Whatever it was, we both knew there was no escaping this.

I shifted slightly in my seat, sliding my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

She didn't resist, but I could feel the stiffness in her posture, the way her body was still guarded, despite how comfortable we were supposed to appear.

God, this was ridiculous.

I leaned in, pressing my lips to her ear, knowing we were being watched. I felt her exhale softly, playing along. 

We had to act like this was natural, like we were so wrapped up in each other that nothing else mattered. But the truth was, everything mattered.

I ran my fingers through her hair, a show of tenderness. She glanced at me, her expression unreadable, though I could sense the tension just beneath the surface. We were both playing a game neither of us wanted to, but we didn't have a choice. Not here. Not now.

"This is too much," Serafina whispered under her breath, her voice laced with dry amusement.

I smirked, brushing my thumb over her cheek in an overly affectionate gesture for the benefit of the crew. "Not as much as you think."

Her eyes flickered with something—maybe understanding, maybe frustration. Probably both. Serafina was good at hiding her feelings, always had been. 

But there were cracks in her armor. I could see them now more than ever.

I leaned in closer, my lips barely touching the edge of her jawline, making it look like an intimate whisper. "This is insane," I murmured, my words meant only for her.

She tilted her head slightly, her breath warm against my neck as she responded, "Tell me something I don't know."

Despite everything, I had to admire her strength. She wasn't the type to break, no matter how ridiculous or impossible the situation was. 

And yet, I could feel the weight of this farce bearing down on both of us. 

Nonna's men were watching, ensuring that we were "relaxing" and doing what was expected of us.

"Do you think they're buying this?" I asked, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.

Serafina's lips twitched into a half-smile, her gaze flicking to the flight attendants near the front of the cabin before returning to mine. "They have to. We don't have a choice."

Choice. That word felt so foreign now. There hadn't been any real choices for me in a long time.

It was all reactions—scrambling to stay ahead, to keep things from falling apart. 

And now, here I was, sitting on a plane with Serafina, pretending we were on the verge of starting a family.

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just emptiness.

I let my hand drift lower, resting on her thigh, making sure to sell the act, but my mind was elsewhere. It always was, lately. Caught between the expectations placed on me and the impossible future Nonna seemed to want for us.

I squeezed her thigh gently, an act of faux affection for the sake of our audience, but inside, my thoughts were spiraling. Bianca didn't just want us spending time together. 

She wanted us to fuck, to make babies, to continue the Moretti bloodline. And she wasn't being subtle about it.

"Do you think she'll be satisfied if we just pretend?" I asked softly, my lips brushing against her ear.

Serafina tensed for just a second before her expression smoothed over. "She won't stop until she gets what she wants. But don't worry, I have planned everything"

I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Nothing about this was fair. Not to me, not to Serafina, not to anyone. 

And yet, we had to keep playing along, pretending this was something more than what it really was.

I could feel Serafina's breathing slow beside me, her body leaning against mine in an act of comfort—or at least the illusion of it. 

My chest tightened, a sudden pang of guilt hitting me square in the gut.

This was as unfair to her as it was to me. She didn't ask for this. She didn't ask for any of it.

My fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, my voice low and careful. "Je suis désolé." ("I'm sorry.")

Her eyes flickered with surprise, just for a moment, before her mask slipped back into place. "Ne sois pas." ("Don't be.")

But I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that had settled in my chest. 

She didn't deserve to be dragged into this, to be forced to play a role that wasn't hers to play. 

We were both victims of circumstance, trapped in a game that neither of us wanted to play.

The rest of the flight passed in a haze of forced touches and whispered conversations, all part of the elaborate dance we had to perform. 

Like maybe, just maybe, we could convince ourselves of the lie we were selling. 

But then reality came crashing back in, and I knew better.

This was nothing more than a performance.

One we would have to keep up until Nonna got what she wanted—or until everything came crashing down around us.

Serafina shifted behind me and straddled my lap, undoing the buttons of my shirt.

I had already removed my tie and coat the moment we got on the plane.

She leaned forward, whispering, "Just follow my lead," as she pressed her lips to mine for a kiss.

Damn, she's not holding back with those open-mouthed kisses.

I can tell she's into it—the way she's dominating the entire act.

It's like she's stripping me bare with each kiss, each touch igniting a fire within me.

But I'm no pushover. I kiss her back with even more intensity, taking control, pushing her mouth into submission.

I can feel the heat between us, the tension building with every passing second.

"Take me to bed, Lucien. I can't wait to feel you inside me again," she moans, her voice dripping with lust and need.

Part of me wants to believe it's real, but I know better. This is all part of the show.

"Is that what you want, jolie poupée?" I tease, running my finger along her lips.

"Yes, please," she replies, leaning into my touch, her desire palpable.

"Good girl," I growl, standing up as she wraps her legs around me, clinging to me like a damn koala.

As we make our way to the bedroom at the end of the aisle, I find her lips again, kissing her with an almost brutal intensity.

I press my lips against hers, not gently like some soft touch, but with all the pent-up frustration and desire bottled up inside me.

It's like a war.

Our mouths clash, tongues battling for control.

I can feel the heat rising between us, our breaths mingling, hearts pounding like war drums.

Every kiss is a power play, a wild storm of lust and need. And I don't want to stop—can't stop.

I slam her against the bedroom door, our bodies pressed tight together, lost in the raw passion of the moment.

I'll show those Italian bastards exactly what they're missing.

I open the door, get us inside, slam it shut, and throw her onto the bed.

I hover over her when she places a hand between us.

"Showtime's up, Lucien," she says, catching her breath.

Right. We're no longer under watchful eyes.

I pull back and lie beside her.

She gets up, heads to her laptop, opens it, and types something quickly before walking toward the door.

She locks it, clicks one last button, and suddenly the room is filled with moans, groans, skin slapping sounds, and filthy words.

It's porn. And she's damn smart.

"Let's get some rest before our next performance, captain," she giggles, kicking off her shoes and socks before joining me back in bed.

"Aye aye, Le Capetta ," I say, stripping off my shirt before drifting off to sleep beside her.

This is going to be a very brief vacation.

Lucien is fast asleep beside me, his steady breathing the only sound in the dimly lit cabin. I shift slightly, careful not to wake him. 

My head rests against the window, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. Instead, my thoughts are racing, tangled up in everything we've done, everything we're pretending to be.

Why can't this all be real?

I glance over at Lucien, his chest rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. He looks peaceful, something I rarely see in him these days. 

But it's all just an illusion. 

The way he kissed me, the way he touched me on this plane—it's all part of the act. We're playing a game, and it's exhausting. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, I catch myself wishing it didn't have to be this way. 

The moments where we pretend to be in love were real. 

That passion wasn't just for show.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat, trying to push those thoughts away. 

It doesn't matter what I want. It never has. What matters is the family, the legacy, the name.

And that's what brings me back to the island we're flying to. Teodoro. 

My grandfather. His name is woven into everything we do, every decision we make, whether we realize it or not. 

He built this empire, and now it's up to us to keep it alive, to make sure the Moretti name never falls.

Grandma Bianca always made sure we understood that.

When I was a child, she'd tell us stories about him—me and Michele. 

We'd sit at her feet, wide-eyed and eager, as she recounted tales of his strength, his brilliance. "Your grandfather," she'd say, her voice full of pride, "was the kind of man who could command respect just by walking into a room. No one questioned him. No one dared. And you, my children, are exactly like him. " 

She'd look down at us with that gleam in her eyes, like she was daring us to be just as great as he was.

"He wasn't just a man," she'd continue. "He was a force. And when he loved, he loved fiercely. He married me on that island, you know? Teodoro. It wasn't called that back then, but after he died, I made sure the world would remember him. I named it after him because no place could ever mean more to me."

I'd always wonder what it must have been like, to have someone love you that deeply. 

Grandma Bianca would describe their wedding like it was something out of a dream. 

The two of them, standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea, vowed to build a dynasty together. 

And they did. Everything we have now is because of them. Because of him.

But in her stories, it wasn't just about the power. She'd always talk about how much he loved her. 

How no matter how ruthless he was in the world, with her, he was different. 

Gentle, even. "He was the only man who could ever make me feel safe," she'd say, her voice softening. "That's what true power is, Serafina. Not just control, but the ability to love someone with all of you."

I wonder if I'll ever have that. I glance at Lucien again, still asleep, his face softened in the darkness. Part of me wants to reach out, to touch him, to pretend that what we're doing isn't just an elaborate charade. 

That there's something more here, something real. But I know better. We're not built for that kind of love. 

Not in this world. We're bound by duty, by expectation. And love—real love—has no place in it.

Teodoro's legacy isn't about love. It's about survival. About making sure the Moretti name endures, no matter the cost. 

That's what Grandma Bianca always drilled into us. She raised us with that weight on our shoulders, reminding us at every turn that we were born into something bigger than ourselves. And she was right.

But as much as I've accepted that, as much as I've embraced my role in this family, there are moments—like this one—when I can't help but wonder what it would be like to live differently.

To have a day, just one day, where I wasn't Serafina Moretti, the woman who has to carry the weight of an empire on her back.

A day where I could just... be.

To live like those people down below, the ones we'll pass when we land. The locals who don't know who we are, who don't care. 

They'll laugh and drink and swim in the sea, their lives untouched by the kind of power struggles that define us. 

What would that feel like? To just be anonymous for a day, to walk through the streets and not have anyone expect anything from you?

I close my eyes, imagining it. Me and Lucien, walking through the town, no bodyguards, no expectations. 

Just us, blending into the crowd, living a life that isn't dictated by the past or by the future. A life where we could choose what we wanted, not what was expected of us.

But that's a fantasy, and I know it. We can't escape who we are. The island we're flying to is proof of that. 

Teodoro. 

It's more than just a place. It's a reminder of the choices we don't get to make. This is a reminder that we belong to something bigger than ourselves. 

And even though Grandma Bianca loved to romanticize it, to tell us stories of my grandfather's love for her, I know the truth. 

They built their empire together, yes. But it came at a cost.

And now, it's our turn to pay that price.

I open my eyes and stare out the window, the sky dark and endless. Somewhere below us is the island where everything began. 

Where Grandma Bianca and my grandfather built the foundation of the life I'm living now.

And soon, we'll land there, and the charade will continue. I'll keep pretending, just like I always do. 

Because that's what's expected of me. That's what this family demands.

But for now, I allow myself this moment of weakness, this fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

To breathe without the weight of expectations pressing down on your chest. It's a thought I've entertained more often than I'd like to admit. 

A quiet life, a simple one—free from deals, betrayals, and carefully constructed performances like the one we've just put on.

But those thoughts are dangerous. 

Grandma Bianca would call them weak, a betrayal of everything we've worked to uphold. "The Moretti's don't run from their legacy," she'd say. And she's right, isn't she?

I shift in my seat, casting another glance at Lucien. He's still deep in sleep, his brow furrowed slightly even in rest. 

He looks almost vulnerable, though I know better. There's no room for vulnerability in him, just as there's none in me. 

We're two sides of the same coin, bound by duty, trapped by the expectations of others.

Teodoro Island looms in the distance, its name etched into our history, its cliffs waiting to bear witness to another chapter in the Moretti saga. 

It's strange, isn't it? 

That this place, a symbol of love and power for my grandparents, has become a prison for us.

For a moment, I let my eyes drift shut. If I could dream, I'd dream of a world where I wasn't Serafina Moretti.

 A world where Lucien's touch wasn't calculated, where his kisses weren't performances. Where he might look at me and see the woman beneath the name, not the role I play.

But the plane begins its descent, and the fantasy dissolves like smoke. My eyes open to the sight of the island growing larger below, and I know it's time to put the mask back on.

"Wake up, captain," I murmur, nudging Lucien gently.

He stirs, blinking against the dim light. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there's something raw there—something almost real.

But then he smirks, the act slipping back into place as easily as a second skin. "Ready to put on another show, jolie poupée?"

I force a smile, nodding. "Always."

And with that, the game begins again.