𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚

The dining room glowed with warm, golden light, reflecting off the marble floors and the elegant decorations Romano had chosen himself. Everything he touched looked expensive—effortlessly expensive, the kind of wealth that didn’t need to be shown off to be noticed.

You took your seat at the long dining table, the one he insisted was “too big for two people, but perfect for us.” He always said it with a proud smile, as if the room, the house, the luxury itself was a gift he was offering you every day.

Tonight, he’d cooked dinner. A rare gesture—Romano Faria, billionaire, perfectionist, man who could buy any chef in the world, standing in the kitchen himself just because he wanted to make something for you.
He sat down across from you, his cologne drifting through the air. Strong. Sharp. Bitter. A scent that always matched him—intense and impossible to ignore.

But tonight… something was different.

As soon as he leaned back in his chair, the smell hit you harder than ever. It twisted in your stomach like a wave of nausea.

Your breath caught. Your hand froze halfway to your plate.

Romano didn’t notice; he was too busy watching you with that quiet affection he never admitted out loud.

You swallowed, trying to hide the sudden dizziness rising in your chest.
You knew why this was happening.
You knew, even if you hadn’t said it aloud.

You were pregnant.

And he didn’t know.

The man who loved you more deeply than he ever admitted…
The man who hated children with a passion so fierce it made people go silent when he mentioned it.