Elara's POV
I almost turn around three times before I reach the building.
Moretti Tower rises into the night sky like a blade made of glass and steel. People in expensive suits flow through the revolving doors, briefcases in hand, looking important and powerful and nothing like me.
I'm wearing the only professional outfit I grabbed before leaving the penthouse—a black dress that's probably too fancy for eight PM on a Wednesday. My hands won't stop shaking.
The lobby security guard looks up as I approach. "Can I help you?"
"I have a meeting. Top floor. With Dante Moretti."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Name?"
"Elara Sinclair."
He checks his computer, then picks up a phone. Murmurs something I can't hear. When he hangs up, his expression has changed. Like he feels sorry for me.
"Someone will be right down to escort you."
Escort. Like I need supervision. Like I'm a threat.
Or maybe like I'm prey being delivered.
I wait by the elevators, trying to calm my racing heart. Victoria's tracking my location. Martin knows where I am. If anything goes wrong—
"Miss Sinclair?"
I turn to find a man watching me. Tall, built like he could break someone in half without trying, with sharp eyes that miss nothing. He's wearing a suit, but I can tell he's not a businessman. He moves like a soldier.
"I'm Marcus Kane," he says. "Mr. Moretti is expecting you."
His voice is professional but cold. No warmth. No reassurance.
I follow him into a private elevator. The doors close, sealing us in together. He swipes a key card and presses the button for the top floor.
The elevator rises so fast my stomach drops.
"Have you worked for Mr. Moretti long?" I ask, just to break the suffocating silence.
"Eight years."
"And what exactly do you do for him?"
Marcus glances at me. "Whatever needs to be done."
The threat in those words is crystal clear.
The elevator slows. My heart speeds up.
"A word of advice," Marcus says quietly as the doors start to open. "Don't lie to him. He always knows."
Then he steps aside, gesturing for me to exit first.
I walk out into a hallway that's all dark wood and soft lighting. My heels click against the polished floor. At the end of the hall is a massive door, already open.
Through it, I can see an office that's bigger than most apartments.
And in the center of it, standing with his back to me, looking out at the Manhattan skyline—
Him.
Even from behind, he's imposing. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black suit that probably costs more than my college tuition. His dark hair is perfectly styled. One hand is in his pocket. The other holds a glass of something amber.
He doesn't turn around.
"Elara Sinclair," he says, his voice deep and cold as winter. "Right on time. How refreshingly obedient."
The words sting. I want to snap back, but I bite my tongue.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Come in. Close the door behind you."
I glance at Marcus. He nods slightly, then walks away, leaving me alone.
With him.
I step into the office. The door clicks shut with a sound like a vault closing.
"I assume you received my proposal," Dante says, still not turning around.
"The marriage contract? Yeah. I got it."
"And you came anyway." Now he turns, and the breath leaves my lungs.
His photos didn't do him justice.
Dante Moretti is beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that looks carved from stone, and eyes so dark they're almost black. He can't be much older than thirty-three, but he carries himself like someone who's seen too much, survived too much.
Those eyes rake over me, assessing, calculating. I feel stripped bare under his gaze.
"You look like your father," he says finally. "Same bone structure. Same prideful tilt to your chin."
"I came here to talk about your offer, not discuss genetics."
His lips curve into something that might be a smile on someone else. On him, it's predatory.
"Did you research me?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Then you know who I am. What I am. And more importantly—" He takes a slow sip of his drink. "You know what your father did to mine."
My throat tightens. "I know your father worked at my father's firm. I know he died. I'm... I'm sorry for your loss."
"Sorry." Dante laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're sorry. How generous."
He sets down his glass and walks toward me. I force myself not to back away.
"My father was forty-seven years old when Richard Sinclair framed him for fraud," Dante says, each word precise and sharp. "Your father testified against him. Destroyed his reputation. Got him fired. Froze all our assets. We lost everything—our home, our savings, our future."
He stops inches from me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—expensive, dark, threatening.
"My mother died of a heart attack six months later. The stress, the shame, the bills we couldn't pay—it killed her." His voice drops to something barely above a whisper. "My father held on for another year. Then he wrote me a letter apologizing for failing me, walked into his garage, and put a gun in his mouth."
I feel sick. "Mr. Moretti—"
"I was nineteen years old," he continues, ignoring me. "A college dropout working three jobs to survive. Sleeping in my car. Eating one meal a day. And do you know what kept me going?"
I shake my head, unable to speak.
"Revenge." The word hangs between us like a knife. "The promise that one day, I would make Richard Sinclair pay for what he did. That I would take everything from him the way he took everything from me."
"I didn't do those things," I whisper. "I was twelve years old when your father died. I didn't even know—"
"No." He reaches out, his fingers catching my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But you benefited from his crimes. Every luxury you enjoyed was paid for with my family's blood. The penthouse, the private schools, the designer clothes—all of it built on my father's corpse."
Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
"So here's how this works," Dante says, releasing me. "You sign my contract. You marry me. You live in my home, follow my rules, and play the perfect wife for two years. In exchange, I pay your father's legal fees. I keep him out of prison. I take care of your mother's medical expenses."
"Why?" My voice breaks. "Why offer this at all? Why not just let us suffer?"
His smile returns, colder than before.
"Because prison would be too easy for Richard Sinclair. But knowing his precious daughter belongs to me? Knowing she's mine to control, to command, to own?" He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. "That's the revenge I've been waiting fourteen years for."
I stumble back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You're insane."
"I'm a businessman. This is a transaction." He picks up a document from his desk—the contract. "You have something I want. I have something you need. Simple economics."
"I'm not a thing you can buy!"
"Everyone can be bought, Miss Sinclair. The only question is price." He holds out the contract. "Your father's freedom. Your mother's life. Your family's survival. That's my offer. What's your answer?"
I stare at the papers, at the signature line waiting for my name.
Two years of my life for my family's salvation.
Two years owned by a man who hates me.
"I need time to think—"
"No." Dante's voice cuts like a blade. "You have sixty seconds to decide. After that, the offer expires, and your father spends the next twenty years in a cell."
"That's not fair!"
"Fair?" He laughs. "Was it fair when your father destroyed mine? Was it fair when my mother's heart gave out because she couldn't handle the shame? When my father pulled the trigger because he had nothing left to live for?"
"I can't just—"
"Fifty seconds."
My hands shake as I reach for the contract.
"You want me to sign away two years of my life without even reading it?"
"Forty seconds. And you've already read it. I know you have. You're too smart not to."
He's right. I memorized every clause in that hotel room.
"What if I refuse?" I ask desperately.
"Thirty seconds. Then I watch your family fall apart piece by piece. Your father goes to prison. Your mother's hospital bills pile up. You lose everything, just like I did. Except unlike me, you won't have the strength to rebuild."
The cruelty in his voice takes my breath away.
"Twenty seconds."
I think of Dad in handcuffs. Mom sedated in that hospital bed. The frozen accounts. The abandoned friends. The life that's already gone.
"I'll need to see my family. Have some freedom—"
"Ten seconds. Sign it or don't. Choose now."
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I grab the pen from his desk.
"Elara." He catches my wrist, his grip iron-strong. "Once you sign this, you're mine. There's no going back. No changing your mind. You belong to me completely. Do you understand?"
I meet his eyes—those cold, merciless, hate-filled eyes.
And I sign my name.
Dante releases me and picks up the contract, checking my signature like he's afraid I forged it. Then he signs his own name next to mine with bold, confident strokes.
"Congratulations, Miss Sinclair." He slides a small box across the desk. "You're engaged."
I open it with trembling fingers.
Inside is a ring. Platinum band, enormous diamond, beautiful and cold as ice.
Like a shackle made of light.
"Welcome to hell," Dante says softly. "Wife."