The door closed behind her with a soft thud that echoed louder in her chest than in the vast room itself. Isabella stood in the center, her arms wrapped tightly around her trembling body as if her own embrace was the only defense she had left.
The chamber was beautiful—too beautiful, in fact. It felt like another insult, another display of control. The walls were lined with dark oak paneling, softened by cream-colored drapery that fell from floor to ceiling windows overlooking the storm outside. A fire roared in a marble hearth, casting a warm glow across Persian rugs and velvet armchairs. The bed was enormous, draped in silk sheets of midnight blue, with carved wooden posts that looked both regal and ominous.
It was a prison disguised as paradise.
She hated it.
"Your clothes will be brought to you shortly," one of the servants said quietly from the doorway. The woman's voice trembled, her gaze fixed on the floor. "If you require anything else, you may ring."
Isabella turned sharply toward her, desperate for some kind of human connection, some shred of compassion. "Please," she whispered. "Help me. I don't belong here."
The servant's lips parted as though she might speak, but her eyes flicked toward the corridor where Dante's shadow lingered, and fear snapped her jaw shut. With a bow of her head, she retreated, closing the door behind her.
Isabella was alone.
The silence was suffocating. She could hear her own ragged breaths, the distant roll of thunder, the rain against glass. Her gown clung to her skin, cold and uncomfortable, and she ripped at the fabric in frustration, tearing it away until she stood in the slip beneath. The torn satin fell to the floor like the last remnant of her old life.
She moved toward the fire, drawn by its warmth, though the flickering flames did little to thaw the ice in her veins. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass doors of a cabinet nearby, and she caught sight of herself—a pale, drenched figure with wild eyes and trembling hands.
She barely recognized the woman staring back.
She had once been Isabella Romano, the daughter of a powerful family, raised in gilded halls with whispers of influence at her fingertips. Tonight she was nothing more than a pawn. No, worse—a possession.
Her knees weakened, and she collapsed into the armchair nearest the fire. For the first time since Dante stormed into her world, she allowed the tears to fall. Hot, desperate, endless. She buried her face in her hands, her sobs muffled against her palms as the weight of her father's betrayal, his death, and her own captivity bore down on her.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Time blurred in grief.
A knock at the door startled her, freezing the tears in her throat. Before she could answer, the door opened, and he entered.
Dante Moretti.
He looked different in the firelight, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms marked faintly with scars. His tie was loosened, his collar open. Yet the disheveled details did not diminish his control—they amplified it, making him appear even more dangerous in his ease.
He closed the door behind him, silence stretching as his eyes found her.
Isabella straightened instantly, wiping her cheeks with quick, furious motions. She would not let him see her weak.
"Get out," she snapped, her voice hoarse but steady enough to carry her defiance.
Dante ignored the command. He stepped further into the room, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. "You're cold."
She stiffened, glaring at him. "Don't pretend to care."
He stopped near the fire, the glow illuminating the hard planes of his face. "Caring is irrelevant. You are mine now. Your well-being is my responsibility."
Her laugh was bitter, almost hysterical. "My well-being? You destroyed my life. You killed my father."
His jaw tightened, though his expression remained composed. "Your father killed himself when he betrayed me. Do not put his sins on my hands."
Her chest constricted, rage warring with grief. She wanted to throw something at him, to scream until her voice broke. Instead, she whispered, the sound laced with venom. "You are a monster."
Dante regarded her calmly, as if the word did not pierce him in the slightest. "Perhaps. But I am the monster who holds your fate."
He moved closer, and she shot to her feet, backing away until her calves struck the edge of the bed. He didn't stop until he was only a breath away, his presence swallowing hers.
"Stay away from me," she hissed, her fists clenched.
His gaze lingered on her face, then drifted lower, taking in her trembling form in the slip she wore. He didn't touch her—he didn't need to. The weight of his stare was enough to scorch her skin.
"I told you before, Isabella," he said softly, his voice carrying the menace of certainty. "This is not a choice. You will be my wife."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "And if I refuse?"
Dante's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile—it was a threat disguised as one. "Then you'll learn that refusal comes with a cost you cannot afford."
She swallowed hard, fear twisting with fury. But beneath it all, something far more dangerous stirred—a strange pull she despised, an awareness of him that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the intensity in his eyes.
She hated herself for feeling it.
He reached into his pocket then, producing a folded newspaper. He handed it to her, his expression unreadable. "Tomorrow's front page."
With shaking hands, she opened it. Her breath caught.
There, in bold letters above a photograph of her father's crumbling estate, was the headline: Romano Heiress to Wed Moretti Empire Head.
Her knees nearly gave out. "No… this… this is a lie."
"It is already printed," Dante said evenly. "By morning, the world will believe it. There is no going back."
Her vision blurred, her chest tightening as the walls seemed to close in around her. She crumpled the paper in her hands, throwing it at him with all the strength she had. "I will never forgive you for this."
The paper hit his chest and fell to the floor. He didn't flinch. He simply watched her, his gaze dark and unwavering.
"You don't need to forgive me," he said. "You only need to obey."
And with that, he turned, striding toward the door. At the threshold, he paused, his back to her, his voice low enough to make her shiver.
"Sleep well, Isabella. Tomorrow, your new life begins."
The door closed, leaving her alone once more. But the silence no longer felt empty—it pulsed with the weight of chains tightening around her.
She collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind a storm of grief, rage, and despair. And beneath it all, a truth she despised: Dante Moretti had already won the first battle.
But the war inside her had only just begun.