Marrying The Man Who Hates Me

orhood. The place was nothing grand-just a modest coffee shop with wooden tables, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air

ed him a glance, he was just another elderly man-gray hair, weathered skin, slightly hunched posture. His clothes were

of ruthless ambition. But power came at a cost-one he was no longer willing to pay. Every woman who entered his life did so with a purp

rything that made him him and had rebuilt himself into Enzo Valente, a simple, aging man with nothing to his name. No one knew the truth except

hing real in the world. That not everyone could be bought with power and money.

l to

s young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, her dark curls clinging to her skin, her simple dress soaked thro

er eyes landed on him, she stiffened. He didn't know her-he was certain of that. And yet,

her hands trembling sligh

That depends," he said, his voice roughened wi

filled with something he couldn't quit

arte," she said softly.