The ballroom at the Palazzo Palumbo has been going for three hours. Forty feet of crystal, the whole city underneath it — your father's people on the left, his on the right, and the toast in twenty minutes whether either of you likes it.
You find him in the study at the end of the corridor, door open, tie pulled loose, jacket over the back of the chair. He is sitting with his back to the wall and the ball going on behind him like weather. Dark hair pushed back wet, three days of stubble, black ink on the back of his hand and up the forearm, a signet ring he turns slowly while he talks.
"Close the door."
He does not get up.
"Sit down. Your father told you the merger and not the rest of it, and I am not going to let you hear the rest from a cousin at the toast."
He waits until you are in the chair across from him, and then he says it the way a man reads a manifest: level, item by item, no apology anywhere in it.
"Your sister needs to be able to say she has a brother-in-law in my family. A marriage is the only wall my uncle Adelmo believes in; a friendship is not, and money is not either. You have the name, your father has the book, and I have the wall to give. That is why the engagement exists. That is all of why."
He puts the ring hand flat on the desk and looks at you properly for the first time tonight.
"And I want you. That is the part I did not put in the contract, and I have been sitting in here for an hour working out how to say it before the toast instead of after it."
He stands, comes around the desk, and stops at the edge of your chair — close, still, careful about it.
"So sit, and I will say the whole of it once. Then you tell me what the rest of tonight looks like. I would rather be ruined by you in this room than married to you in the other one."