Isabella
We sat.
The air in the room had the weight of ancient blood. Silence draped over the furniture like silk soaked in poison.
I kept my posture elegant, my face neutral, but my hands… my hands were digging half-moons into my thighs beneath the table.
The older man—the one clearly in charge—spoke first. His voice commanded attention without needing to rise.
"You'll be staying in the east wing," he said, voice calm. "There's privacy, security… comfort."
My father nodded. "That's appreciated."
"Your daughter…" The man's eyes flicked to me, slow and predatory. "She's more beautiful than we were told."
I smiled, tight-lipped. The smile a good girl gives to dangerous men.
His gaze lingered, but he turned his attention back to business.
The man beside him—the one with the sharp jaw and cold aura—spoke next. "You'll have full access to the property. We expect full
discretion."
"And cooperation," added the third man. The one with the eyes I couldn't forget. The one whose fingers had been inside me not too long ago. His voice was smooth, but there was a shadow behind it. He didn't look at me.
Not once.
I couldn't stop looking at him.
His suit was fitted like a second skin. His
movements were fluid, confident. But his jaw… it clenched once when our eyes almost met. He looked away just in time. I knew what he was doing.
Pretending.
He was pretending we didn't know each other. That he hadn't been in my room, pressing me against the wall, whispering filth into my ear while smelling like sin.
I kept my face blank, but my knees pressed together tightly beneath the table.
The conversation turned formal. Logistics.
Traditions. My future.
They talked about me like I wasn't even in the room.
The older man leaned forward. "The engagement ceremony will be held this weekend. We'll announce the union then."
My breath stilled.
Union?
The man beside him—my supposed fiancé—glanced at me, but not in the way a man looks at a woman he's about to marry. There was no affection. No charm. Just observation. Curiosity. Cold and analytical.
"We'd like to begin preparing her wardrobe," he
said. "We have a family stylist."
I opened my mouth to speak—but my father's hand hit the table with a quiet thud. A warning.
I stayed silent.
I felt a flicker of something… heat. Not anger.
Lust.
It was from across the table. Him. His eyes were still averted, but his fingers… they were tapping again. That same rhythm from the night he slipped into my room. I knew what it
meant now.
He was remembering.
My legs crossed under the table.
"Of course," my father said. "You'll have full
access to her schedule."
That made me whip my head toward him.
Access?
Was I a property to be coordinated?
"She's… not very obedient," my aunt cut in, her voice laced with venom. "But she will be."
I stared at her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to
stand and throw the crystal glass at the wall.
Instead, I nodded.
Like a good girl.
The conversation simmered until the older man leaned back in his throne-like chair and gave a small, almost regal smile.
"Forgive my manners," he said, voice smooth with age and power. "I am Alphonso D'Angelo. These are my sons—Lorenzo," he gestured to
the man seated beside him, "and Dante."
Lorenzo gave a polite nod. "A pleasure to finally meet you all."
Dante said nothing at first. Just tilted his head
slightly and let his gaze slide over everyone in the room. When his eyes landed
on me, they held for a fraction too long—but not long enough to spark
suspicion.
He gave a subtle nod. "Welcome to our home."
I didn't blink.
My aunt remained seated. "Catalina Williams. Prime Minister of England and sister of the deceased Rebekah Modric."
Her voice was like a blade—sharp and dangerous, even in its calm.
Evangeline introduced herself next. "Evangeline Williams. Isabella's cousin. Daughter of Prime Minister Williams."
I cleared my throat softly. "Isabella Modric."
Alphonso smiled again. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."
I offered a tight smile. You don't know the half of it, I thought.
"Would you like a tour of the grounds?" Lorenzo asked, standing.
Before I could answer, Dante rose from his chair with the fluid grace of someone who never asked for permission.
"I'll take her."
Everyone looked at him.
Something shifted in the air.
He didn't offer a smile. Didn't look for approval. He just extended a hand in my direction and waited.
I hesitated. My father gave me a nod that wasn't a request.
I stood.
Dante turned and walked out first.
I followed—no words exchanged, just silence, and the low, echoing click of my heels on marble.
Behind us, the doors closed.
Ahead of me, the devil waited with a smirk he didn't let anyone else see.
And I was walking straight into the fire.
We barely made it out to the long hallway before I heard the footsteps behind us.
Dante didn't even turn around.
But I did.
Lorenzo was catching up, adjusting the cuff of his suit like this was a casual walk in the park—not the crumbling start of a future none of us wanted.
"I thought you were letting your brother give the tour," I said without slowing.
Lorenzo gave a faint smile. "Change of plans. Thought I'd walk with my future bride instead."
Dante stopped at the end of the hall. He looked back, eyes landing on his brother… then me. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Just turned and kept going down another hallway without a word.
Good riddance.
Lorenzo and I strolled through the marble corridor in silence for a few moments. The villa was massive—full of arches, golden frames, paintings too old to name. But all I could feel was the weight pressing against my ribs. The kind that told you you're being dressed for slaughter in a wedding dress.
"So," I said after a moment, "how many women have you had to charm before this?"
He chuckled softly, almost bitterly. "None I had to marry."
That made me smirk—barely. "Same."
He looked at me. "I'm guessing you're not thrilled about this arrangement either?"
I scoffed. "I wasn't even consulted. My father said I'm marrying one of the D'Angelo sons and didn't care which. So congratulations, you were the unlucky pick."
"Unlucky? You wound me," Lorenzo said with dry amusement, then sobered quickly. "Truth is, I don't want this either. But I don't have a choice."
"Of course not," I said, arms crossing. "No one seems to want anything in this family unless it serves their power."
He paused. "It's… more complicated than that."
I gave him a look that said try me.
"My grandfather," he began, "left a will. The only way I inherit anything is if I'm married. Not just anyone—legally married. Otherwise, everything passes to my uncle's son. He's older. Married already. And an absolute vulture."
I blinked. "So you're doing this for money."
"Not money. Power. My father doesn't want the inheritance slipping into someone else's hands. And since I'm the oldest son, I'm the only one who qualifies—if married."
"Sounds fun," I muttered. "At least you have a reason. I have none. My father just decided I'd be a good pawn."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look… I'm not going to pretend this isn't insane. You're a stranger. I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want to fake love either. So… maybe we keep it simple. Civil. You don't want me. I don't want you. Let's just… survive it."
His words surprised me—not cold, not arrogant. Just honest.
I nodded slowly. "You're not what I expected."
"And you're not screaming, crying, or threatening to claw my eyes out, so… that's a win."
We both shared a short, breathy laugh. It didn't fix anything. But it was something.
"We'll figure something out," he added. "Just… stick with me through the public show. After that, maybe we can find a way to breathe in all this madness."
I looked up at him. "Deal."