Elena's POV
"Please don't do this."
I'm backing away from Dante, my wedding dress tangled around my legs, tears streaming down my face. The man I married is walking toward me with cold, empty eyes, and I finally understand what Sarah tried to warn me about.
I'm not his wife. I'm his prey.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Dante says, his voice flat. "We both have a job to do tonight."
"A job?" My voice cracks. "We're supposed to be making love! This is our wedding night! You said you loved me!"
"And you believed it." Something that might be regret flickers across his face, but it's gone instantly. "That's not my fault, Elena. You wanted a fairy tale. I needed a womb. We both got what we needed."
The cruelty of those words steals my breath. Three weeks of flowers and sweet words and gentle kisses—all of it was a trap. He hunted me like an animal and I walked right into his jaws.
"I won't do this," I whisper. "You can't force me."
"Force?" He stops walking, tilting his head. "Elena, you signed a contract when you married me. Did you even read it?"
"It was a prenup! Standard marriage paperwork!"
"Read clause seven. The one your signature appears under." His smile is cold. "You agreed to attempt conception within the first month of marriage. You agreed to carry any resulting pregnancy to term. You agreed to surrender custody upon birth in exchange for a ten million dollar settlement."
The room tilts. "No. That's not— I would never—"
"Your signature says otherwise. My lawyers made sure every page looked like standard prenup language. But you were so excited, so in love, you didn't bother reading carefully." He moves closer, backing me against the wall. "You signed away your rights to your own child before you even conceived it."
I can't breathe. My chest is too tight. This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.
"Why?" The word comes out broken. "Why me? Why do this?"
"Because my grandfather is dying and demands an heir. Because I need a wife who's easy to discard. Because you were perfect—no family, no power, no one to fight for you." His hand touches my face, but there's no tenderness in it. "And because you were desperate enough to believe that a billionaire could actually love you."
The truth cuts deeper than any knife. He's right. I was so desperate for love, so lonely and scared and tired of being alone, that I ignored every red flag. I saw what I wanted to see.
"I'll leave," I say desperately. "I'll walk away right now. You can keep the ring, I don't care. Just let me go."
"No." His grip on my arm tightens. "You're my wife now. You signed a contract. And you're going to fulfill your end of the bargain."
"I won't. You can't make me—"
His kiss cuts off my words, but it's not like the kisses from before. This is brutal and claiming, meant to dominate not cherish. I try to push him away, but he's too strong.
"Stop fighting," he says against my mouth. "This happens tonight whether you cooperate or not. You can make it easy or difficult. Your choice."
Terror floods through me. "Dante, please. If you ever felt anything for me—"
"I didn't." The words are final. Absolute. "Now stop talking."
What happens next breaks something inside me that will never be whole again.
Dante takes my virginity with mechanical efficiency, like he's completing a transaction. There's no gentleness, no care that I'm crying and begging him to stop. He does what he came to do—what he married me to do—and I'm powerless to prevent it.
It hurts. God, it hurts so much. Not just physically, but in my soul. Every place he touches feels contaminated. Every second lasts an eternity.
I stop begging eventually. Stop crying. I just lie there and let him use my body, staring at the ceiling and trying to separate my mind from what's happening.
This is my wedding night. This is the man I promised to love forever.
This is my nightmare.
When it's finally over, Dante pulls away like I'm contaminated. He doesn't hold me. Doesn't comfort me. Doesn't acknowledge that I'm bleeding and shaking on his expensive sheets.
He picks up his phone from the nightstand and starts scrolling through emails.
I curl into a ball, trying to cover myself, trying to disappear. My body aches. My heart is shattered into pieces so small they'll never fit back together.
"That should be sufficient," Dante says clinically, still looking at his phone. "According to the fertility specialist, you're at peak ovulation. The chances of conception are high."
I can't speak. Can't move. I'm broken.
"We'll repeat this as needed until you're pregnant," he continues, like he's discussing a business strategy. "Try to be less dramatic next time. The crying is irritating."
Something inside me snaps. I lunge for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I vomit. I throw up everything—the expensive wedding cake, the champagne, the dreams I was stupid enough to believe in.
When I'm empty, I collapse on the cold tile floor, naked and bleeding and destroyed.
The bathroom door opens. Dante stands there, now wearing a robe, looking at me with something that might be disgust.
"Clean yourself up. The guest room is down the hall. You'll sleep there from now on. I only need you when you're ovulating."
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I sit on that bathroom floor for hours, shivering and broken, trying to understand how my life became this nightmare.
Eventually, I force myself to move. I shower, scrubbing my skin until it's raw, trying to wash away his touch. It doesn't work. I can still feel him everywhere.
I find a robe and stumble to the guest room. It's cold and impersonal, nothing like the master bedroom I stupidly thought I'd share with my husband.
My phone is on the nightstand—Dante must have brought it up. There's a text from Sarah: "How's the wedding night? Are you happy?"
Happy. The word is a joke.
I should call her. Tell her everything. Beg her to help me escape.
But then I see the contract on the dresser. The one Dante mentioned. I grab it with shaking hands and read through it properly this time.
He was telling the truth. It's all there in legal language. I signed away my rights to any children. Agreed to the divorce terms. Even agreed to a non-disclosure agreement—I can't tell anyone about this arrangement without losing the settlement.
I'm trapped. Completely and totally trapped.
I sink onto the bed, clutching the contract, and finally let myself break down completely. I sob until I can't breathe, until my throat is raw, until there are no tears left.
This morning, I was a bride full of hope.
Tonight, I'm a prisoner in a nightmare I can't escape.
I must fall asleep eventually because I wake to my phone ringing. The sun is rising. My wedding day is over.
It's an unknown number. I almost don't answer.
But something makes me pick up.
"Elena Russo?" A woman's voice, professional and cold.
"Yes?"
"This is Dr. Sarah Chen from Saint Catherine's Hospital. I'm calling to inform you that we've received your medical records from your new husband's physician. You're scheduled for a pregnancy test in two weeks, followed by prenatal appointments throughout your expected pregnancy."
My blood runs cold. "What?"
"It's standard procedure for high-risk pregnancies in wealthy families. Mr. Moretti wants to ensure optimal care for his heir. Congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Moretti."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at my phone, horror crawling through my veins.
Dante already scheduled pregnancy appointments. Before the wedding even happened.
He was so sure of his plan, so confident I'd fall into his trap, that he arranged everything in advance.
And the worst part? He was right.
I look down at the ring on my finger—the beautiful diamond that I thought meant love.
It's not a wedding ring. It's a brand. A collar.
And I'm the fool who put it on willingly.