Rachelle's POV
The faint flicker of light pierced through the curtains, pulling me out of my restless slumber.
My eyes fluttered open, confusion washing over me—then panic.
"Oh my gosh…" I whispered, sitting up abruptly. I slept in this dress.
No wonder my body felt like it had been wrapped in chains all night. The tightness around my waist, the stiffness in my neck—it all screamed regret.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
What if something happened to it? The fabric—delicate, expensive, borrowed. My heart skipped a beat. I didn't even have enough money to replace a single stitch of this gown.
I pressed my palm against my forehead, trying to piece together how I'd ended up like this. The glitter on my skin, the ache in my chest, the silence around me. That monster never came back—thank goodness—but why did he bring me here? What use am I to him?
"I need to see Dad," I murmured, my voice trembling in the still air. The thought of him—his disappointment, his questions—sent a chill down my spine.
I swung my legs off the bed, my feet brushing against the cold marble floor.
"But first," I whispered, pushing myself up, "a shower… before everything comes crashing back."
Opening the wardrobe, I froze. None of my clothes were there—only new ones, expensive ones that smelled of luxury and control. I blinked, thinking maybe I was dreaming, when a soft knock came at the door.
"Yes, come in," I said.
"Ma'am, breakfast is ready. Sir requests that you join him," the maid said quietly.
"Alright, I'll be down in a minute. But… do you know where my clothes are?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sir ordered them taken away and replaced with new ones."
I stared at her for a moment before forcing a smile. "Okay… thank you."
She nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.
I stood there, the silence suddenly heavy again. So this is what he does—to cover up his wickedness, his humiliation of me. He ruins my life, destroys my dream wedding, and tries to dress me in luxury to bury his guilt.
---
The dining table stretched long enough to seat twenty people, every inch filled with steaming delicacies. Yet, only one person sat there — Xavier.
The moment my eyes met his, my blood boiled.
"Good morning, wifey," he greeted, not with warmth, but mockery. The word rolled off his tongue like poison.
"Don't call me that," I snapped, struggling to keep my voice steady.
"I'll call you whatever I please," he replied coolly, smirking. "Now, wifey… let's set some rules."
He leaned back, his tone casual — too casual for what he was about to say.
"You live in my house, you follow my rules. Rule number one — no secrets. No lies. I hate lies more than anything in my life. Rule number two — no contact whatsoever with Luis. I don't care if he calls, texts, or sends a pigeon. You're mine now. Rule number three — curfew. Seven p.m. sharp. I like my house quiet when I'm home."
My chest tightened with rage. "You can't control my life, Xavier. You don't own me."
He paused, lifting his eyes from his plate. The look he gave me could have frozen blood.
"Then watch me," he said, his tone low and lethal.
"I won't follow them," I retorted, my voice shaking but defiant.
He placed his fork down slowly, the faint clink echoing like a threat.
"Then your father's restaurant," he said, calm and cold, "is gone. Permanently."
I felt my breath hitch. My father — the only person I had left.
Fine. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I'll follow them."
A faint smile curved his lips. "Good. That's my wifey."
I clenched my fists beneath the table, my pride burning like acid.
"I'd like to see my dad today," I said finally, my voice quieter now.
"Fine," he replied, standing and heading toward the door without another glance back. His indifference was worse than anger — it reminded me that to him, I was nothing more than a deal signed in ink and vengeance.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway.
I sat there, staring at the untouched food, the echo of his words still slicing through my mind.
All the gold in this house couldn't hide the chains I felt around my soul.
For the first time, it truly sank in — this wasn't love.
It wasn't even marriage.
It was a sentence.