Elena's POV
I'm burning Dante's dinner for the third time this week.
The smoke alarm screams as I stare at the ruined chicken, watching it blacken in the oven. I should care. I should turn it off. But I'm so tired I can barely stand.
"Mrs. Moretti, please let me handle the cooking," Margaret, the housekeeper, says gently. She's been trying to help me all week, but I keep insisting on doing things myself.
Because I need to do something. Anything. If I stop moving, I'll fall apart completely.
"I can do it," I say, my voice cracking. "I just need to... I wanted to make him something he'd like. Maybe if I could just—"
"Mrs. Moretti." Margaret takes the burned pan from my shaking hands. "Mr. Moretti hasn't eaten dinner at home in three weeks. He won't eat this even if it's perfect."
The truth hits like a slap. She's right. Dante hasn't been home for a real meal since our wedding night. He works until midnight, sleeps in his office, and only comes to the penthouse when he needs to...
I can't even think the words.
"Why doesn't he want to be here?" I whisper. "What did I do wrong?"
Margaret's face softens with pity. "Oh, honey. You didn't do anything wrong."
But I must have. Otherwise, why would my own husband avoid me like I'm poison?
One month. I've been married to Dante Moretti for one month, and I've never felt more alone in my life.
The pregnancy test was positive two weeks ago. I'm carrying his child—the heir he wanted so badly. I thought maybe that would change things. That he'd soften, show some kindness, acknowledge that we're creating a life together.
Instead, he got colder.
Now he only summons me twice a week—"to ensure optimal implantation," according to the doctor's orders he sent via email. Not a phone call. Not a conversation. An email with a schedule attachment.
Tuesday 9 PM - Conception attempt
Friday 9 PM - Conception attempt
Like I'm a calendar appointment. Like our baby is a business project.
I tried talking to him last Tuesday. Tried to make it feel less clinical, less horrible.
"Dante," I said softly as he undressed. "Can we just talk first? Maybe we could—"
"No." He didn't even look at me. "This isn't a date, Elena. Lie down."
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell him I'm not his property, not his breeding machine.
But I signed the contract. I have no power here.
So I lay there and let him use my body while I counted ceiling tiles and tried to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
When it was over, he left without a word. Didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't acknowledge the tears running down my face.
I heard him drive away ten minutes later. He didn't even sleep here.
I'm losing myself piece by piece.
Every morning, I wake up and try to remember who I was before Dante. The girl who believed in happy endings. Who volunteered at hospitals because she wanted to help people. Who thought goodness and love could conquer anything.
That girl is dying, and I don't know how to save her.
I spend my days in the penthouse like a ghost. Margaret tries to engage me in conversation, but I have nothing to say. What would I tell her? That I'm trapped in a nightmare dressed as a fairy tale?
I can't go back to school—Dante said pregnant women shouldn't stress themselves with unnecessary activities. I can't work—he forbid it, saying his wife working at minimum wage jobs would embarrass him. I can't even leave the building without his security team following me.
I'm a prisoner in a golden cage, and the bars are getting tighter every day.
Sarah calls constantly, but I can't answer. The contract has a non-disclosure clause. If I tell anyone the truth about my marriage, I lose the settlement and Dante gets full custody immediately.
Not that I care about the money anymore. But I can't let him take my baby without a fight.
So I pretend. I send Sarah texts saying everything's wonderful. That married life is amazing. That Dante is perfect.
Every lie makes me hate myself more.
It's 2 AM and I'm in the bathroom, throwing up from morning sickness.
Dante didn't come home tonight. It's Friday—our scheduled conception night—but he sent a text at 8:55 PM: "Delayed at the office. Reschedule for tomorrow."
Rescheduled. Like I'm a dentist appointment he forgot about.
I flush the toilet and lean against the cold tile, my hands unconsciously touching my stomach. There's a tiny life growing inside me—barely bigger than a poppy seed, according to the pregnancy app I downloaded.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to my unborn baby. "I'm so sorry your father is a monster and your mother is too weak to protect you. I'm sorry I brought you into this nightmare."
My baby can't hear me yet, but I need to say it. Need to apologize for the hell I've created for both of us.
Because Dante will take my child the moment it's born. The contract is clear. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.
I start crying again—something I do multiple times a day now. My tears feel endless, like I'm made of nothing but grief and regret.
Through my sobs, I hear the penthouse door open.
Dante's home.
My heart starts racing with anxiety and something worse—hope. Maybe tonight he'll be different. Maybe the stress of work made him cruel, and now he'll remember the man he pretended to be during our courtship.
Maybe—
"Elena!" His voice cuts through the penthouse, sharp and angry. "Where are you?"
I freeze. He sounds furious.
I wipe my face and stumble out of the bathroom. "I'm here. What's wrong?"
Dante is standing in the living room with his phone in hand, his face twisted with rage. And beside him, looking triumphant, is Vivienne Ashford in a tight red dress.
My blood turns to ice.
"Want to explain this?" Dante shoves his phone in my face.
On the screen is a photo—me at a coffee shop yesterday, talking to a man. I recognize him: David, my lab partner from community college who recognized me and stopped to say hello. We talked for five minutes about our old literature class.
"That's David from school," I say, confused. "He just said hi. We talked for—"
"You were seen having an intimate conversation with another man." Vivienne's voice drips with poison. "While carrying Dante's child. How shameful."
"Intimate? We were talking about books! Dante, this is insane—"
"You're my wife." His gray eyes are ice. "You don't talk to other men. You don't leave the penthouse without my permission. You don't do anything without my approval. Do you understand?"
"I went to get coffee! I'm not a prisoner!"
"Yes," he says coldly. "You are. That's exactly what you are."
The words hit like bullets. He's not even pretending anymore.
"From now on, security follows you everywhere," Dante continues. "No exceptions. You want to go to the bathroom? They wait outside. You want fresh air? They accompany you to the balcony. You are not to speak to any man besides me, my grandfather, or my staff. Are we clear?"
I can't breathe. "You can't do this."
"I can do whatever I want. You're mine, Elena. My property. My breeding vessel. And you'll do exactly as I say or there will be consequences."
Vivienne smiles like she won the lottery.
And I realize with horror that this isn't rock bottom.
It's going to get so much worse.
After Dante and Vivienne leave—apparently they have a "business dinner"—I collapse on the couch.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
"He's going to destroy you completely. But I can help you escape. Meet me at the address below tomorrow at 3 PM. Come alone. This is your only chance."
An address in a part of the city I don't recognize.
My hands shake as I read it again.
This could be a trap. Could be one of Dante's tests. Could be Vivienne playing a sick game.
Or it could be my only way out of this nightmare.
I look down at my stomach, at the tiny life depending on me to protect it.
Tomorrow at 3 PM, I'll have to make a choice: stay in this hell or risk everything on a stranger's promise.
Either way, my life will never be the same.