The Moretti mansion loomed like a fortress against the night sky—stone walls, iron gates, and guards stationed at every corner.
The drive from the cathedral had been silent, the tension between Alessia and Damian thick enough to choke on. Now, as the limousine rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, she felt the weight of her new reality settle over her like a shroud.
The driver opened her door. Damian stepped out first, offering his hand. She ignored it, lifting her chin as she exited on her own. His smirk was faint but unmistakable.
"Still fighting, princess?" he murmured.
"Always," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Inside, the mansion was breathtaking—marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystal, and walls lined with art worth more than most people's lives. Yet it felt cold, lifeless, like a museum built to display power rather than warmth.
A line of servants bowed as they entered. Damian dismissed them with a flick of his hand. "You'll get used to it," he said, leading her up the sweeping staircase.
"I doubt that," she muttered.
He glanced back at her, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You'll find I'm not as terrible as you think."
"I already think you're terrible," she shot back.
He chuckled softly. "Then I suppose I have nothing to lose."
They reached the master suite—an opulent room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The bed was massive, draped in silk and shadows. Alessia froze at the threshold, her pulse quickening.
Damian turned to her, his expression unreadable. "You can relax. I'm not going to touch you."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why? Afraid I'll bite?"
He stepped closer, his voice low. "No. I'm afraid I won't stop if I start."
The air between them crackled. Alessia's breath caught, her body betraying her with a shiver she couldn't hide. Damian's gaze lingered on her lips for a heartbeat before he turned away, loosening his tie.
"You'll have your own room," he said. "Across the hall. I don't force what isn't given."
His words surprised her. She had expected dominance, not restraint. "Why the sudden chivalry?"
He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light.
"Because I don't need to take what will eventually be mine."
Her heart stuttered. "You're arrogant."
"Confident," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She crossed her arms. "You think I'll just fall for you?"
He met her gaze, his tone calm but certain. "No. I think you'll see me for who I am. And that will be enough."
For a moment, silence filled the room—thick, charged, dangerous.
Then he handed her a glass of water. "You should rest. Tomorrow, the world will expect us to play the perfect couple."
She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and unexpected. She pulled back quickly, retreating toward the door.
"Goodnight, Mr. Moretti."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Moretti," he said, his voice a velvet threat.
In her room, Alessia sank onto the bed, her mind spinning. She had expected cruelty, but what she found was far more dangerous—a man who could destroy her not with violence, but with patience.
Across the hall, Damian stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker below. He had married her for power, for peace, for control. But as he replayed the fire in her eyes, he realized something unsettling.
He wanted her—not as a pawn, but as a woman who could match him blow for blow.
And that desire, he knew, could be his greatest weakness.