The villa changed after her escape attempt.
Before, the guards had been shadows—present but silent. Now, they were walls. One followed her down every corridor, another stood outside her suite at all hours. Every door she touched was locked, every window secured. The message was clear: she belonged to him now, whether she accepted it or not.
Dante, however, didn't shout or rage like she expected. No threats. No visible anger. That was worse. His silence was deliberate, calculated—like a predator biding his time.
The first sign came at breakfast.
She walked into the dining hall expecting the usual lavish spread. Instead, only one plate was set. Her plate. Scrambled eggs, toast, masala chai. Exactly how she'd ordered it at a café in Mumbai weeks ago.
Her chest tightened. She had never told him.
Dante entered moments later, his suit immaculate, his gaze unreadable. He sat across from her, not touching his own food, simply watching as she forced herself to eat.
"How did you—" she began, but he cut her off smoothly.
"I don't keep things I don't understand," he said, sipping his espresso. "You intrigue me. So I learn."
Her spoon clattered against the plate. "That's not intrigue. That's surveillance."
His lips curved faintly. "Call it devotion."
The second sign came later that afternoon. She had been sketching escape routes on a scrap of paper in her room, when the door opened without warning. Dante leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
"You waste your time," he said, his accent thicker when he was amused. "There's no way out."
She crumpled the paper, anger sparking. "You think this makes you powerful? Caging a woman and watching her like a hawk?"
He stepped inside, his gaze sharp. "Not powerful. Just inevitable."
Before she could reply, he plucked the crumpled paper from her hand, smoothed it out, and studied her messy arrows and notes. Then, with deliberate care, he tucked it into his pocket.
"Every plan you make belongs to me now," he said softly. "Every thought. Every move."
That night, she found the third sign.
Her suite's wardrobe, once empty, was filled with clothes. Silks, saris, dresses in deep jewel tones—her size, her style, things she had once admired while window-shopping but never bought.
Her throat tightened. He was watching not just her, but her past. Her choices. Her desires.
Dante appeared in the doorway as she stared at the garments, his presence filling the room. "You should look like the queen you are," he murmured. "Not a prisoner. Never that."
Her voice cracked with fury. "Stop this. Stop pretending this is anything but control."
Finally, he moved closer, his hand brushing the edge of a red silk sari. His eyes caught hers, burning with something dark and unrelenting.
"You call it control," he said softly. "I call it inevitability. You can hate me, Ishani. You can fight me. But you will live under my roof, eat at my table, wear what I give you. Until one day… you'll wonder how you ever lived without me."
She wanted to scream at him, shove the clothes in his face. But the quiet certainty in his voice lodged like a thorn in her chest.
Because the most terrifying part wasn't his obsession.
It was the sliver of her that feared he might be right.