Rafael Moretti refused to look at any woman’s face, because he said beauty had lied to him once before. But when the white sheet was finally removed from the woman he chose, the millionaire froze as if the past had walked into the room breathing 😨

The air inside the Moretti estate's grand hall tasted like old money and ozone. Ten women sat in absolute stillness beside a long black marble table, each completely veiled from head to waist beneath heavy white silk sheets. Only their hands protruded, resting palm-up under the harsh, cold glare of the crystal chandelier.

Rafael Moretti walked slowly before them, his sharp, tailored light-blue suit reflected flawlessly in the mirror-like black marble floor. In the corner, his aunt Valeria watched him, her lips curved into a tight, practiced smile that never once reached her cold eyes.

"You are making a spectacle of yourself, Rafael," Valeria whispered, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. "A wife is not chosen by hands. This is madness."

Rafael did not even glance her way. His mind was locked in a fortress built three years ago, a fortress guarded by bitterness and betrayal. "A face can lie," he said quietly, his voice dangerously low. "Hands cannot."

To the high society of Europe, Rafael was a cold, arrogant billionaire who treated romance like a hostile business takeover. But they did not know about Leila Haddad. They didn't know about the art restorer from Marrakesh with paint beneath her fingernails and laughter that used to make his chest ache. She had vanished one week before their wedding, leaving behind a signed letter claiming his family’s money had always been better than his promises, alongside a fabricated bank transfer that Valeria had conveniently placed in his hands.

Rafael had spent three agonizing years hating Leila in public while secretly starving for her memory in private. Now, standing before ten veiled candidates selected from elite families, he refused to look at a single face. No names. No jewelry. Only truth told through skin, bone, and scars.

His eyes swept over the rows. Some hands were impossibly soft, pampered by endless luxury; others twitched with nervous energy. Then, his gaze locked onto the seventh woman.

Her hands were entirely still. And there, on her left thumb near the cuticle, was a faint, pale crescent-shaped scar.

Rafael’s breath hitched in his throat. Years ago, Leila had sliced that exact thumb while helping him restore a cracked blue vase in one of his hotels. He remembered wrapping it clumsily in a napkin while she laughed until she cried, teasing that he could buy half the world yet still didn't know how to fold cloth.

His hand hovered inches above hers.

Valeria’s smile vanished instantly. The temperature in the room plummeted.

"Not that one," Valeria snapped, stepping forward too quickly.

Rafael turned his head slowly, his piercing eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Valeria forced a brittle laugh, her fingers clutching her shawl. "Her hands are too rough, Rafael. You are choosing a wife, not a servant."

Deep beneath the white silk, the seventh woman’s fingers trembled—just once. A micro-movement so subtle that only a man who had memorized every inch of her body could possibly notice.