POV: Marcella
The private jet—sleek, silent, and obscene in its luxury—gave way to a black car that carried us deeper into the night. The moon hung low, a pale sliver above an unfamiliar coastline, casting silver streaks over the restless sea. I watched the world outside blur into shadows, the last remnants of my old life fading into darkness.
When the car stopped, I stepped out to face a villa carved into the cliffside like a crown. Marble and glass gleamed under moonlight, framed by the endless ocean. It was breathtaking, yes, but this was a jewel box with a lock you couldn't see until it clicked shut.
He placed a hand on the small of my back, the gesture controlled, deliberate, and far from tender. Inside, the air was fragrant with fresh flowers—an almost mocking touch of innocence.
"Welcome home, Marcella," he said, voice low and smooth.
"This isn't a home," I replied, my tone a quiet blade. "It's a prison. A beautiful one, but a prison nonetheless."
His lips curved into a slow, predator's smile. "You'll find this prison quite comfortable. I spared no expense. Every luxury is yours. You are my wife, after all."
"And a wife, in this world, is just a possession," I countered, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I understand my role, Lorenzo. I just refuse to play it."
His dark eyes glinted. "You play the defiant wife well. But defiance, like a weak lock, breaks under the right pressure."
"And what's the right pressure? Threats? Force?" My voice was steady, my heart iron in my chest. "My strength isn't in my body, Lorenzo. It's in my mind. And that, you can't break."
His smile deepened. "We'll see. But for now, let's start our honeymoon. Dinner on the terrace. Private chef. Romantic view. The beginning of our story."
"A story where the villain gets the prize," I said, venom in every syllable.
"In my stories," he murmured, leaning closer, "there are no villains. Only victors. And I am always the victor."
Dinner felt like a standoff in slow motion. Every smile hides a loaded gun. The flavor of fish, the view from the terrace, and the temperature of the wine are all distractions to keep from saying what we really meant. He was charm and civility wrapped around steel, but I saw the predator beneath.
"Our life together is a business transaction," I reminded him, voice cold. "Let's not pretend otherwise. No love, no romance—just survival."
He sipped his wine slowly. "Even business has… personal elements. Especially marriage. Public, and private."
I let the implication hang in the air before slicing it down. "The private part will be discussed later. For now, we stick to the façade. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
His grin sharpened. "For now. But the night is young, Marcella. And our story has just begun."
Inside, the bedroom was opulent to the point of suffocation. I walked to the window, the sea breeze brushing my skin like a whispered promise of escape.
"The honeymoon suite is impressive," I said, eyes on the horizon. "Every comfort, every detail. Except for a lock on the door."
"A lock?" His voice held amusement. "Safety doesn't come from metal and hinges Marcella. It comes from the man who owns the door."
I turned to face him. " And I'm safest when I'm not sharing a room with a man who believes he's the victor."
"I don't believe it, Marcella," he said, stepping closer, shadow swallowing me whole. "I know it. And I'll prove it. The game has just begun. And I am the one with the teeth."
"And I," I said, each word a promise, "am the one with the poison. And the patience to wait for the perfect moment to strike."
The air between us burned with unspoken war. The ring on my finger gleamed under dim light—a chain disguised as gold. The first move had been made.
POV: Lorenzo
She stood at the window, hair catching moonlight, eyes lit with cold fire. A beautiful puzzle. Dangerous, but captivating.
When she called the villa a prison, I almost laughed. Most women in her position would bow, eager to please. Not her. She was already testing boundaries, calculating moves.
"You'll find this prison comfortable," I'd told her, watching every twitch in her expression. She thought she could draw a line between public partnership and private claim. That was her first mistake.
Her venom, her defiance—they intrigued me. This wasn't just business anymore. This was a game, and she was a worthy opponent.
We traded pleasantries like chess pieces. Each was polite but meant to corner the other. She tried to keep intimacy at bay; I kept pulling it closer. Fear, I knew, was a lever. And when I found the right place to press, her walls would fall.
When she spoke of locks, I realized—Marcella Vale was not just a grieving bride. She was a strategist. A strategist I would have to outplay.
"A lock? Safety does not come with metal and hinges, Marcella. It's about the man who owns the doors" I'd said, knowing full well why.
Her scoff was sharp. Her challenge, sharper.
I stepped into her space, letting my shadow cover hers. "I know I'm the victor. And I intend to prove it. The game has just begun. And I have the teeth."
She met my threat without blinking. "Then I'll be the rot in your victory Lorenzo, slow, silent, and waiting for the moment you think you've won."
The tension between us was electric, almost intoxicating. She thought she could wait me out. But patience can be worn down. And I am relentless.
She'd drawn the first blood, but I've never been the kind of man who leaves a fight unfinished.