The silk clung to me like a lie.
Layers of ivory spilled around my body, delicate lace crawling up my shoulders and throat as if trying to choke me. I stared at my reflection in the gilded mirror, searching for the girl I'd been only a week ago. She was gone. In her place stood a bride, a pawn in a game that wasn't hers to play.
The seamstress fussed with the hem, whispering about perfection, about how the gown shimmered like moonlight. I barely heard her. My pulse was too loud, my throat too tight.
My hands trembled as I touched the diamond necklace fastened at my throat, its weight like chains. A Moretti heirloom. A collar.
"Breathe," my cousin Sofia urged softly from the corner of the room. She'd been allowed to stay, a shred of comfort in a day designed to strip me bare. "You look… beautiful."
I laughed bitterly. "Beautiful? Or bought?"
Her face fell, but before she could answer, the door opened. A hush swept through the room.
Dante.
He filled the doorway like he owned it, like he owned everything. A dark suit, black as sin, tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he wasn't a man bound by rules. No tie, no hesitation. He walked inside as though tradition itself bent for him.
The seamstress dropped into a nervous curtsy and fled. Sofia slipped out too, leaving me alone with him.
His eyes swept over me slowly, possessively, until my skin burned under his gaze. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that the scent of his cologne curled through my lungs, warm spice and danger.
"I was told," Dante said, his voice low velvet, "that brides glow on their wedding day. Yet you stand here ready for war."
My chin lifted. "Maybe because this feels less like a wedding and more like a funeral."
He smiled faintly, cruelly. "In some ways, it is. Today, Isabella Romano dies. Tonight, Isabella Moretti is born."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, anger, fear, something more dangerous. "You're disgusting."
His hand rose, fingertips brushing my cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicted every word. "And yet you can't look away."
I hated him for being right. My breath caught, traitorous, and he saw it. His smirk deepened.
Dante leaned close, his lips almost grazing my ear. "When you walk down that aisle, every man in the room will know you belong to me. Not because of an oath. Not because of a ring. But because I'll make sure they see what I already feel, your pulse racing every time I touch you."
My knees nearly buckled, fury and unwanted desire tangling inside me. I shoved him back, but he let me, stepping away with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
"I'll see you at the altar, wife."
And then he was gone, leaving the room colder, my reflection in the mirror more foreign than ever.
The church was a cathedral of marble and gold, its vaulted ceilings echoing with murmurs of power. Not a single guest was there for me. They were here for him, for the spectacle of Dante Moretti marrying the daughter of his family's oldest rival.
I walked down the aisle slowly, the train of my gown whispering across polished stone. Cameras flashed discreetly, heads turned, murmurs rippled. Every glance felt like a blade.
And at the end of the aisle, he waited.
Dante stood before the altar like a king awaiting his crown. Dark suit immaculate, a single crimson rose at his lapel, blood on black. His eyes never left mine. That cold silver gaze pinned me in place, even as my steps carried me closer.
When I reached him, he extended his hand. Large, steady, commanding. The touch that had burned me in private was now offered in public. I hesitated, but every eye in the cathedral watched. My father's warning echoed in my head: Refuse, and you'll destroy us all.
I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine, warm and strong. The faintest squeeze, possessive, not comforting.
"You're breathtaking," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "And mine."
The priest's voice droned through the ceremony, vows, alliances, the façade of holy union laid over a bloodstained contract. I barely heard it. All I could feel was Dante's thumb brushing slow circles over the back of my hand, a subtle, deliberate caress no one else could see.
My pulse betrayed me.
When it came time to speak my vows, my voice wavered but didn't break. "I, Isabella Romano…"
Dante's eyes softened, no, sharpened as I spoke, his gaze a blade cutting straight through me. When it was his turn, he delivered the words like oaths carved in stone:
"I, Dante Moretti, take you, Isabella Romano, as my wife. I promise to protect you from all enemies…"his gaze held mine
"…including yourself."
A murmur rippled through the pews. He smirked faintly, as if daring anyone to question it.
The priest declared us husband and wife.
"You may kiss the bride," he said.
Dante didn't hesitate.
He pulled me into his arms, not roughly, but firmly, a hand at my back, the other cupping my jaw. His mouth found mine in a kiss that was both a claim and a performance. Soft enough to look tender, deep enough to make my knees weaken, lingering just long enough to leave me trembling.
The congregation erupted into applause.
Dante pulled back slowly, his breath mingling with mine, his lips barely brushing my ear. "Smile for them, wife," he whispered, the word a caress and a command. "We'll save the real fire for later."
I forced a smile, my hands clenched in his. But inside, a storm churned.
I'd married him.
I was his.
And yet, as the applause faded, one thought cut through the haze:
He might have won this round, but the war is far from over.
Crystal chandeliers glittered above the ballroom, casting light across rows of gilded tables heavy with champagne and caviar. A string quartet played, though their elegant music was drowned beneath the roar of conversation. Deals were being made over crystal glasses, alliances toasted, enemies smiled through clenched teeth.
It wasn't a wedding reception. It was a display of power.
And at the center of it stood Dante Moretti.
He looked devastatingly at ease, shaking hands with politicians, exchanging murmurs with kings of industry, his presence commanding the room. Always, though, his hand remained at the small of my back, a subtle anchor that tethered me to him no matter how far I wanted to drift.
Every time I shifted, every time I tried to step even an inch away, his palm pressed lightly against me, guiding me back. To anyone watching, it looked like devotion. To me, it was a leash.
"Smile," he whispered in my ear as another toast was raised. His lips brushed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. "They're watching. Give them the perfect bride."
My lips curved, though my eyes burned. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm enjoying you." His tone was smooth, lethal, filled with double meanings. "And I'm savoring the knowledge that every man in this room envies me."
I turned my head, meeting his gaze. "Let them envy you. You don't have me."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Not yet."
Dinner passed in a blur of champagne, hollow laughter, and glances that felt like chains. Every time Dante leaned in to speak, his hand brushed my thigh beneath the tablecloth, a secret touch that made my breath catch and my pulse race despite myself.
When the final toast rang out, Dante rose smoothly, tugging me to my feet beside him. He lifted his glass, his voice carrying through the ballroom like a decree.
"To my wife," he said, his eyes locked on mine. "The blood that binds two families. The fire that will build an empire."
Applause thundered. Glasses clinked.
I stood frozen, the weight of his words crushing me. Fire. Blood. Empire. This wasn't a marriage, it was a coronation.
Dante set down his glass, leaned close so only I could hear. His lips brushed my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
"Now, wife," he murmured, "it's time for our honeymoon."
My stomach dropped. My hands tightened around the stem of my glass until I thought it might shatter.
Honeymoon.
The word wasn't a promise. It was a threat.
The applause still echoed when Dante's hand closed around mine, firm and unyielding. He didn't wait for goodbyes, didn't allow me a final glance at Sofia's worried face across the ballroom. He simply led me out, cutting a path through the crowd with the certainty of a man who never asked permission.
Guards fell into step behind us. The massive doors of the ballroom swung open, revealing the night beyond, sleek black cars lined up like soldiers, engines purring in anticipation.
The chill of the evening air bit through the silk of my gown. Dante shrugged out of his jacket in a single, fluid motion and draped it over my bare shoulders. The gesture looked protective, even tender, but I knew better. It was a brand, a reminder that I carried his name now, his power, his claim.
"Where are we going?" I demanded as he guided me toward the waiting limousine.
His lips curved, the barest hint of a smile. "To begin what we've vowed."
The door opened. The interior glowed with soft golden light, leather seats gleaming. Inside, it was intimate, inescapable.
I hesitated on the curb, heart thundering. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere left to go. My family had delivered me into his hands. My signature had been written in fire and blood.
Dante leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't make me carry you, Isabella. Unless, of course, you'd like me to."
Heat and dread tangled viciously in my chest. I climbed in without another word.
The door shut behind me with a heavy, final click.
Dante slid in beside me, the space between us vanishing instantly. The car pulled away, the city lights streaking past in a blur. His hand came down on my thigh, deliberate, claiming, a touch that promised everything I feared.
I turned to him, forcing steel into my voice even as my body betrayed me with a tremor. "You can put on a ring. You can drag me into your bed. But you'll never own me."
Dante's eyes gleamed in the dim light, silver fire laced with hunger. He leaned in, lips so close I could taste the danger on his breath.
"Wife," he murmured, "I already do."
The car sped into the night, carrying me toward a future I hadn't chosen and a man who would burn me alive before letting me go.