Painted in light gray tones and with some minimal details of purple, the room where I will be staying is ridiculously huge. It has a living room, bathroom, and huge walk-in closet that makes my room in Miami just a sizeable one.

"Does it please you?" he asks while he stares at me.

"I guess that doesn't matter," I express coldly. Then I go where the staff left my bags.

I bend down to open them and start to unpack my clothes when I see him standing in front of me "we will have to go shopping. You have to change your style," he tells me, and I look up to meet his eyes.

"Don't even dream about it. I won't stop being who I am because of you. Also, you should know that I always appeared on the list of the best dressed in any social event I went to," I reply firmly. The desire to erase that stupid smile comes back again.

"It seems very good to me, but the clothes you wear in Miami are very different from those used by women here in Italy. In my family, im