The morning sun forced its way past the velvet curtains, spilling pale light across the room. Aria stirred, her throat raw from dreams laced with gunfire and Matteo's dying words. Her fingers brushed against the cool silk sheets, half-expecting to find Dante beside her.
But the bed was empty.
Only the faint scent of smoke and his cologne lingered, a dark reminder that this was no dream. She was still in his house. Still his wife. Still shackled to the man she believed had killed her brother.
The sound of footsteps drew her attention. A maid entered, eyes cast downward, her posture stiff with fear. She carried a silver tray laden with coffee, fresh bread, and fruit that looked too delicate to touch.
"Mrs. Moretti," the maid whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. Her hands trembled slightly. "Mr. Moretti instructed that you be ready within the hour. He wants you at the table."
Aria sat up slowly, her eyes narrowing. "And if I refuse?"
The maid froze. Then swallowed. "No one refuses Mr. Moretti."
Her chest tightened, but she masked it with a cold smile. "Thank you. You may go."
When the door shut, Aria dragged the tray closer, her eyes scanning everything—every cup, every slice of fruit. Poison? No. Too obvious. Dante wanted her alive. Bound. Controlled.
She ignored the food. Instead, she stood before the gilded mirror at the far wall.
The reflection staring back was no bride. Her hair tumbled in waves around her shoulders, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion but blazing with defiance. The diamond ring glittered on her finger, mocking her. Her brother's dagger, hidden beneath her nightgown, pressed against her thigh like a vow.
She would not break.
She would not bow.
By the time the maid returned with a black dress "chosen by Mr. Moretti," Aria's decision was already made. She would play his game. But on her terms.
The dining hall was a cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rain, and a long mahogany table stretched endlessly, set with silver cutlery and porcelain plates.
Dante sat at the head, a newspaper in one hand, a glass of black coffee in the other. He didn't rise when she entered. Didn't greet her. His eyes, storm-grey and unreadable, flicked up only once to meet hers.
"Sit," he said.
Her steps echoed across the polished floor as she moved to the seat at his right. The symbolism wasn't lost on her—always by his side, always close enough for the world to see.
A servant poured her coffee. Aria wrapped her hands around the warm porcelain, more for something to grip than to drink.
Dante folded his newspaper. "You've caused quite a stir, Aria."
Her brow arched. "Already? I've only been your wife for less than a day."
His lips curved faintly. "Exactly. And yet, last night, every guest noticed the way you looked at me—as if you'd rather stab me than kiss me. Not the picture of a perfect bride."
Her jaw tightened. "Maybe they mistook disgust for fear."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with quiet intensity. "Fear I can work with. Disgust? That could become a problem."
She held his gaze, her heart racing, but her voice steady. "Then consider it your first challenge, husband."
For a moment, silence. Then he chuckled—a dark, low sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine. "You really are nothing like the women I've known."
"And you," she said, lifting her cup with deliberate calm, "are everything I despise."
He smirked, unbothered. "Despise me all you want, cara mia. But remember—every move you make now is under the world's eye. You are Mrs. Moretti. The crown on my empire. Play your role well, and you'll live comfortably. Fail, and…"
His words trailed off, but the warning lingered like smoke.
Aria sipped her coffee, forcing herself not to flinch under his gaze. "I don't fail."
His eyes glinted, stormy and sharp. "Good. Then prove it. We have a meeting today with the council. Consider it your first test."
Her stomach tightened, but she only tilted her chin higher. "Perfect. I've been waiting to see what kind of king rules when he's crowned in sin."
Dante's smirk widened, dangerous and approving all at once. "Careful, wife. You might like what you see."
Aria smiled back, a sharp, beautiful lie. "Or I might slit your throat at the table."
This time, Dante didn't laugh. He simply stared, as though trying to peel her apart layer by layer.
And Aria knew, deep in her bones, that the war between them had only just begun.