The morning came too quickly. Isabella awoke not to the comfort of sunlight, but to the sound of curtains being drawn apart by unfamiliar hands. The sudden flood of daylight cut through her fragile sleep, scattering the dreams she had tried desperately to cling to. For a moment, she almost expected to find herself back in her old bedroom, the safety of her world intact, her father alive, and last night nothing more than a fevered nightmare.
But the sight before her was a cruel reminder of reality.
A young maid stood near the window, careful not to meet Isabella's gaze as she tied the drapes back neatly. Another servant entered, carrying a silver tray laden with breakfast—fresh fruit, croissants, a porcelain cup of espresso whose aroma filled the air. The elegance of it all made Isabella's stomach turn.
She pushed herself upright in bed, her slip twisted from the restless night she'd endured. Her eyes burned from hours of tears she hadn't meant to shed.
"I don't want this," she muttered hoarsely, gesturing toward the tray.
The servant bowed slightly, his tone polite but flat. "Mr. Moretti instructed us to ensure you eat. He insists."
Isabella's jaw clenched. Of course he did. Even her body was no longer hers—it was his to command, his to regulate. The thought made her chest ache with rage.
"Take it away," she said, her voice firm now.
The man hesitated, glancing toward the door as though fearful of disobedience. Then, with a shallow bow, he removed the tray. The espresso's rich aroma lingered cruelly, reminding her of the luxury she had once enjoyed freely, now tainted by chains.
Left alone, Isabella swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet touched the soft rug, but comfort meant nothing. She stood, crossing to the mirror that hung across the room.
What stared back at her was a stranger—her dark hair tangled, her skin pale, her eyes hollow. Yet beneath the exhaustion burned something she had not seen in herself for years: fire.
She would not let Dante break her.
The door opened suddenly, and she stiffened. Dante stepped inside, already dressed in a tailored suit of deep navy, his tie knotted perfectly, his presence commanding as ever. His eyes swept over her, lingering briefly on the defiance in her stance before he closed the door behind him.
"You refused breakfast," he said calmly.
She lifted her chin. "I don't need you to feed me."
He walked further in, his movements unhurried, deliberate. "You do. If you collapse in front of the cameras today, it won't just humiliate you—it will humiliate me. And I do not tolerate humiliation."
Her stomach tightened. "Cameras?"
"Yes," Dante said, his voice even, as if this were nothing unusual. "Today, the world sees us together. The engagement will no longer be words on a page—it will be flesh and presence. We'll attend lunch with the Caruso family. Journalists will be there."
Isabella's heart pounded. "You can't parade me like some trophy."
"I can," he countered, his eyes locking onto hers. "And I will. The Romano name is weak, your fortune in ruins. But standing beside me, you will have power again—my power."
She wanted to scream that she didn't want his power, that she would rather live as nothing than as his bride. But her voice betrayed her in its silence.
Instead, she asked, bitterly: "And if I refuse to go?"
Dante's expression did not change. "Then I'll remind you what refusal costs."
The air between them thickened. Isabella swallowed, her defiance and fear warring inside her. She could see no weakness in him, no crack in the wall he had built around himself.
Finally, he gestured toward a wardrobe that stood tall against the far wall. "Your gown is ready. Be dressed in an hour."
With that, he turned, leaving as quietly as he had entered.
The door shut, and Isabella exhaled shakily, pressing her hands against the vanity for support. Her reflection stared back, and she whispered to herself, "You are not his. Not truly."
The hour passed too quickly. When the maid returned with the gown, Isabella's breath caught despite herself. It was a masterpiece—a pale champagne dress with delicate embroidery that shimmered faintly under the light. The bodice hugged tightly, the skirt flowing with elegance that whispered of money, control, and ownership.
She wanted to tear it apart. But the weight of inevitability pressed down, and with trembling fingers, she allowed herself to be dressed.
By the time she stood before the mirror again, she looked nothing like the broken woman from the night before. She looked like a bride.
And she hated it.
When Dante returned, his gaze flicked over her slowly, assessing. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—a shadow of approval, or perhaps something deeper—but it vanished before she could name it.
"Perfect," he said.
She glared at him. "You mean convincing."
He didn't deny it.
Soon, they were in the car again, the city flashing past as silence pressed between them. Isabella kept her eyes fixed out the window, refusing to acknowledge the man sitting beside her. Yet her body betrayed her with every stolen awareness of his presence, every accidental brush of fabric when the car shifted.
They arrived at an elegant restaurant on the Upper East Side, its facade gleaming with polished stone and gold lettering. Outside, photographers had already gathered, their cameras flashing wildly as Dante exited the car. He moved to her side, opening the door, extending his hand.
She hesitated, then took it—not out of submission, but because she would not stumble before the vultures.
The cameras erupted as she stepped out, the flashes blinding, the shouts deafening. "Isabella! Isabella! How does it feel to be engaged to Dante Moretti?"
She forced a tight smile, her arm stiff as Dante guided her inside.
The Caruso family was waiting at a private table, their matriarch rising to greet them with a calculated smile. "Dante. Isabella. What a surprise—and what wonderful news."
Isabella returned the smile with practiced grace, though her insides churned. She sat beside Dante, her every movement deliberate, controlled.
The lunch passed in a blur of polite conversation, veiled barbs, and relentless stares from journalists hovering at the edges. Dante spoke little, but when he did, his words carried weight. Isabella spoke when necessary, her voice steady though her heart thundered.
When the ring was slid onto her finger before the cameras, she nearly choked. The diamond gleamed mercilessly under the light, a symbol of her captivity disguised as love.
The cameras flashed, capturing her smile, her posture, her silence. To the world, she was the picture of elegance, the bride of New York's most powerful man.
But inside, Isabella screamed.