3

Rocco pov 

It's already been five minutes, and I strongly dislike tardiness; it really irritates me. If she doesn't show up in the next five minutes, I'm leaving. The time I'm spending here could be put to better use at the office.

As I give one last glance at the restaurant's door where I've been waiting for nearly ten minutes, I let out a heavy sigh, contemplating the significant changes that await me in the coming months. Initially, I took it the wrong way.

Discovering the betrothal and the fact that I have to get married soon to inherit my grandfather's construction company bothered me. That old man knew I had no intention of getting married, and he arranged this on purpose. My father didn't inform me earlier, which is why I'm so infuriated.

No one forced me to come here; I decided it might be a good idea to meet the person I'll be married to in the next few months. Although I'm not thrilled about being betrothed when I'm old enough to choose my own partner, I need her. She's my grandfather's choice, and my mother seems to like her based on her gushing compliments.

So, getting married to her shouldn't be a major issue. We'll be married; we don't need to be in love with each other. My parents didn't consider this before arranging our betrothal, so marrying out of love shouldn't be a problem.

The longer I sit here alone in this empty place, the more agitated I become, and my interest in following through with this arrangement wanes.

If this is just a ploy to get me married, then fine. Can't I find my own partner? I don't want a pampered person who lacks punctuality when we need to go out or attend an event.

Clearly, the girl I'm betrothed to is spoiled and isn't mindful of time. I already despise that attitude.

What's the point of this betrothal when I can be told when to marry to inherit the company? I just need to choose one girl from the numerous options I have.

Honestly, this is nonsense!

With a surge of anger, I stand up abruptly and grab my phone, preparing to leave. However, the glass door swings open as the guard holds it, and a woman enters.

"Ridiculous" doesn't begin to describe how she looks. She's definitely not who I was expecting. My mother described her as a sophisticated and beautiful lady, which led me to assume she'd be a pampered individual.

Is that a tracksuit she's wearing? I furrow my brow in confusion as I continue to stare while she approaches me.

Who wears a matching tracksuit to a date with the man they're about to marry? Everything about her is absurd. She doesn't look attractive, probably due to the wrong choice of accessories and bad makeup.

Am I marrying a clown? What the heck is this?

If I weren't already ill-tempered, this would certainly have that effect on me.

"Hey," she shyly waves when she's nearby, snapping me out of my thoughts and amplifying my anger.

Perhaps because of my anger, I can't seem to find the right words. The expression on my face conveys everything.

She ignores it, and it occurs to me that this is intentional. Someone like her shouldn't overlook the look on my face; she should be here to impress me, not the other way around.

Evidently, I'm not the only one upset about this betrothal. She seems displeased as well, and the only way she can defy her parents and me is by dressing like a clown on our first date.

When I finally regain my voice after blinking repeatedly and looking up at her to confirm that she's indeed the one I came to meet, I growl loudly, "What the hell is this?"

The shy smile on her face disappears, replaced by a scowl. She no longer appears timid but rather confident in her attire and actions.

"What are you talking about?" she innocently asks, but her demeanor suggests otherwise. She's not innocent; she knows exactly what I mean.

Instead of snapping at her and unleashing my pent-up anger, I slump into my seat, making an effort to control my nerves and stay composed.

I need her. My mother approves of her, and my father won't go against my grandfather's wishes, even though the old man is long gone. They all want me to get married. There's nothing I can say to change their minds about this betrothal. It means a lot to them.

This is all because of my grandfather. If not for him, my father wouldn't be bringing this up now. He'd have suggested that I find a girl on my own.

What good would it do to get angry at this foolish girl and run to my father?

Nothing.

I shake my head once more, unable to contain my anger. I feel like shouting at the top of my lungs, first for her tardiness and for not making it worth the wait, and second for showing up in such a ridiculous outfit.

Doesn't she have any sense of shame?

Before I can come up with an answer to my own question, she takes a seat across from me with another fake smile on her face.

"Hi, I'm Valentina Martins," she says, stretching her right hand for a handshake after placing her small purse on the table between us.

My focus remains fixed on her face. She looks absurd, and I'm certain I would burst into laughter if this were my sister, not the girl I just learned I would be marrying.

She's clearly doing this on purpose, and this realization only adds to my frustration.

Without accepting her hand, I lean back with my arms crossed, and she retracts her hand with a disappointed expression.

Even that appears to be a facade.