The rain did not let up, pounding mercilessly as the car sped through the darkened streets of New York. Inside, silence reigned, heavy and oppressive. Isabella sat rigid against the door, her arms wrapped around herself, her soaked gown clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Every breath felt shallow, unsteady, as though her body still hadn't recovered from the violent shock of being torn from her home.
Beside her, Dante Moretti was still. His presence consumed the narrow space, though he barely moved. He sat with one arm resting lazily against the door, the other draped over his knee, as though this night were nothing more than a routine business transaction. His sharp profile was cut by fleeting flashes of city lights as the car wove through slick streets.
Isabella tried to slow her breathing, tried to quiet the panic clawing at her throat. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She turned her face toward the rain-streaked window, refusing to acknowledge him, though her entire being was aware of his proximity.
Finally, unable to bear the silence, she spoke. Her voice cracked at first, but she forced it into steadiness.
"Where are you taking me?"
Dante did not immediately respond. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking toward her, then back to the darkness beyond the windshield.
"To your new home," he said at last.
Her jaw clenched. "That is not my home. My home was stolen from me tonight. You destroyed it."
He regarded her coolly, his voice calm, deliberate. "Brick and stone can be rebuilt. A home is where power resides. And from now on, that power will be shared between us."
Isabella laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "You think dragging me into your cage makes us partners?"
The faintest curve touched Dante's lips, though it carried no warmth. "Not partners. Husband and wife."
The words lodged in her chest like a blade. She twisted toward him, her eyes blazing despite the tears she refused to shed. "You cannot force me to marry you."
"I can," Dante replied simply, his tone devoid of arrogance, as if stating a fact of nature. "And I will."
Her nails dug into her palms, half-moons of defiance marking her skin. She wanted to scream, to claw at him, to hurl every ounce of fury in her body against the man who sat there so composed, so infuriatingly certain. Instead, she whispered, her voice trembling but fierce:
"You will regret this."
Dante turned his head fully now, his eyes locking onto hers. For the first time since the night began, his expression shifted—not softening, but sharpening, as though her words had struck something beneath the layers of control. He leaned closer, his voice low, unyielding.
"I do not regret what must be done. And neither will you—when you understand."
The car jolted slightly as it turned sharply, moving off the main road. Isabella's pulse quickened as she realized they were leaving the familiar lights of the city, heading toward the darker edges where Manhattan blurred into shadow.
Minutes passed in tense silence. At last, the vehicle slowed before a set of wrought-iron gates, their design intricate yet forbidding. Cameras blinked from hidden posts, and a guard stepped forward. Without a word, he signaled recognition, and the gates swung open.
Isabella's stomach twisted as the car rolled through. Beyond the gates stretched a long, tree-lined drive that seemed to swallow light itself. At its end, looming against the storm, rose a mansion of black stone and glass—modern, imposing, a fortress masquerading as a home.
Her throat tightened. This was Dante's domain.
The car came to a stop before the grand entrance. Another man hurried forward, opening the door on Dante's side. He stepped out first, the storm lashing against his tailored suit, though he moved with the same unbothered composure as if the night were calm. Then he turned back, extending a hand toward Isabella.
She recoiled instantly. "I can walk."
He didn't press, merely lowered his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. "Then walk."
Two of his men appeared at her side as the opposite door opened. Isabella slid out, her bare feet touching the slick stone. Rain immediately drenched her anew, though she hardly noticed—her entire focus was on the looming structure before her, its windows glowing faintly like the watchful eyes of predators.
Dante motioned, and the men fell back, leaving her to walk beside him. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her chin lifted despite the tremor in her body. If he wanted her humiliated, she would deny him that satisfaction. She would walk into his lair with her spine unbroken.
The doors opened at their approach, revealing a cavernous interior of marble and steel. The house smelled of cedar and leather, the air sharp and unfamiliar. Chandeliers cast cold light across the vast foyer, where servants stood in silence, their gazes lowered as their master entered.
Isabella's eyes flicked across the space—grand staircase, tall windows, art too modern and severe for warmth. It was beautiful, yes, but empty. A place built not for family but for command.
"This is not a home," she murmured under her breath.
Dante caught it. His voice was quiet, but it carried, reverberating against the marble. "It is now."
She turned to him sharply. "Do you truly believe this farce will last? That you can bind me, parade me as your wife, and the world will accept it?"
"The world," Dante said evenly, "accepts what power tells it to accept."
His words cut deeper than she expected because they were true. The press, the authorities, even the society circles her family once dominated—all of them bent when power demanded. And Dante Moretti had power in abundance.
Before she could speak again, he gestured to a servant. "Prepare her room."
Her head snapped toward him. "Room? You think I'll stay here like some guest?"
His eyes glinted. "Not a guest. A bride-to-be."
Rage surged. She stepped forward, her voice rising despite the guards lingering near. "I will never marry you. Do you hear me? Never."
Dante's expression remained carved from stone, though his jaw ticked slightly. He moved closer, closing the distance until she was forced to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
"You can fight me, Isabella. You can claw and scream. But tomorrow, the papers will announce our engagement. And in time, you will stand beside me and take my name. Whether you speak the vows through gritted teeth or with silence, they will bind you all the same."
Her heart pounded violently. The certainty in his tone terrified her more than his threats. He wasn't merely forcing her into this—he believed it was inevitable.
She wanted to strike him. Instead, she whispered fiercely: "I will find a way out. You cannot cage me forever."
Dante studied her for a long, charged moment. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. His touch was deceptively gentle, at odds with the steel of his words.
"Forever," he murmured, "is exactly what I intend."
She jerked away, disgusted by the flutter in her chest she couldn't control. His hand fell back, unhurried, as though he had made his point.
The servant returned, bowing slightly. "The room is ready, sir."
Dante nodded, his gaze never leaving Isabella. "Take her."
Two men stepped forward, guiding her toward the grand staircase. She resisted the urge to thrash—what good would it do? Instead, she lifted her chin, her every step a vow of silent defiance.
But as she was led deeper into the heart of Dante Moretti's mansion, a truth settled like a stone in her chest. She was no longer Isabella Romano, daughter of a dynasty. She was the captive bride of her father's enemy.
And the war for her freedom was only beginning.