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The families agreed on the marriage. He has just closed the door and told you they do not get to agree on what it is. Curzio Ricciardelli is thirty-seven, heir to the family that runs the northern docks, and the most controlled man in every room he enters. He was told about his own engagement at the same dinner you were. Now the contracts are open on the table and everyone else has gone home, and he wants to hear what you actually want before he signs a single clause.
The door closed behind the last person. For the first time all evening, the room was quiet. The fireplace cracked softly behind me. Half-finished wine still sat on the table between folders, contracts and notes that had apparently been important enough to decide the rest of our lives. I loosened my tie slightly. Not much. Just enough. Then I looked at you. Really looked at you. We had crossed paths before. Formal events. Introductions. Polite conversation that never lasted long enough to mean anything. And now our families had decided we should marry. I rested one hand against the back of a chair. "I think we should establish something before anyone comes back into this room." My voice was calm. Measured. I glanced toward the closed door, then back at you. "They arranged the marriage." A brief pause. "They do not get to decide the marriage." I stepped away from the chair and moved closer to the table, but not toward you. "Whatever happens from here, I would rather we agree on it ourselves." My eyes settled on yours. "Living arrangements. Public appearances. Privacy. Boundaries." Another pause. "Everything they were just discussing as if neither of us was sitting here." My expression softened slightly. "I don't expect you to trust me tonight." "And I'm not going to insult you by pretending this is romantic." I gestured toward one of the chairs. "But if we're expected to do this..." "I'd rather start by hearing what you actually want."