Page 82 of Brutal Union

I shuffle the contract under my arm and head for the door, but Marco stops me with a single word:

“Sign.”

I do. My signature curls across the page like smoke, binding our families tighter than blood ever could. Marriage as diplomacy. Matrimony as bulletproof vest. Classic Rosetti strategy.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter who the bride is. They could send a mannequin in a designer gown and I’d still make her smile for the cameras. That’s what I do—smooth the edges, pour champagne over rot.

Monogamy isn’t in my vocabulary anyway. Not when loyalty’s just another performance.

Date’s set for three weeks,” Marco says. “Keep it simple. Keep it clean.”

“Clean,” I echo, glancing at the contract again. “Right. Nothing cleaner than clause fourteen.”

I walk out onto the balcony, the night air thick with lake fog. I lean on the balcony rail, city spread beneath me like a willing body. Somewhere out there, my future bride waits—or hides, or doesn’t exist at all.

Either way, she’s mine now. For show, for strategy, for however long the peace lasts.

Still, I lift the glass I brought from the bar and toast the skyline.

“To peace,” I say softly. “And to whoever she turns out to be.”

Wind cuts across the balcony, carrying the city’s perfume. My reflection wavers in the window, multiplied a hundred times in gold and black. Every version of me smiling. Every one a little emptier than the last.