POV: Isabella
His words—"we make this marriage real"—hung in the air between us, a lit fuse. The diamond necklace felt like an iron weight against my throat. Every instinct screamed to run, but my feet were rooted to the Persian rug, my back pressed against the ornate bedroom door that had just clicked shut, sealing me in with him.
Dante didn't move to grab me. He simply watched, his dark eyes cataloging my panic with detached interest, like a scientist observing a reaction. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic drum of my own heart.
"Take off the dress," he said, his voice quiet but absolute.
It was the command I'd been waiting for, the moment the monster shed its civilized skin. A cold numbness spread through my veins, followed by a surge of wild defiance.
"No."
The single syllable echoed in the vast room. I expected anger and violence. I braced for it.
Instead, one dark eyebrow lifted a fraction. "No?"
"You may have bought my signature and my presence," I said, forcing steel into my voice though my knees trembled. "You don't own my body. Not like this."
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Article Four, Isabella. Consummation within seven days. It's in the contract you signed."
"I read it. It doesn't specify how that… transaction… occurs. Only that it must be verified." I was gambling with my life, parsing legalities with a man who was the law in this world. "Or are you the kind of man who needs to force himself on an unwilling woman to feel powerful?"
His expression hardened, the amusement vanishing. In two strides he was before me, not touching me, but his presence was a cage. I could feel the heat from his body and smell the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne. "Careful," he warned, his voice a low vibration. "You think you know what kind of man I am. You have no idea."
"I know you're a man who buys women to settle debts."
Something flashed in his eyes—a spark of genuine anger, sharp and quick. "I offered a solution that kept your father alive and you out of poverty. You accepted. We are bound by mutual agreement."
"Mutual?" I choked on a bitter laugh. "You gave me a choice between your bed and my father's grave! That's not a choice; it's extortion!"
"It's reality!" he snapped, the control slipping for a flash, revealing a glimpse of fierce, frustrated intensity. "The world isn't your art gallery, Isabella. It's brutal and it's bloody, and sometimes the only choices are bad and worse. You chose. Now you live with it."
He turned away, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disrupting it. The gesture was strangely human, at odds with the ruthless Don. He walked to the window, staring out at the dark park, his back to me.
"I will not rape you," he said, the words stark and blunt in the quiet room.
The statement shocked me into silence. My breath caught.
"The contract requires consummation. It does not require me to be a savage." He turned, leaning against the window frame, his silhouette outlined by the city lights. "You have a choice. Tonight, or within the week. But it will happen, Isabella. That is non-negotiable. The legitimacy of our union must be beyond question, for your safety as much as mine."
"My safety?" I spat. "How does you forcing me keep me safe?"
"Because in my world, a wife who is not truly a wife is a vulnerability. A target. Our enemies would see a sham and know they could use you to get to me without retribution. A consummated marriage is a statement. It means you are under the full protection of my name, my blood, and my vengeance. It means, 'Touch her and you ignite a war.' Do you understand?"
I understood, in a horrifying, logical way. It was all about power, perception, and possession. My value was as a symbol. My body was just the parchment on which the treaty was sealed.
"So, what?" I asked, my voice hollow. "I'm supposed to… offer myself? To the man who imprisoned me?"
"I am not your jailer. I am your husband."
"You are my warden in a gilded prison!"
"This gilded prison has heated floors, security that could withstand a siege, and will keep you alive!" he fired back, pushing off the window and advancing again, his patience clearly fraying. "Your 'freedom' in Brooklyn was a leaking roof and the constant threat of your father's creditors breaking down your door! Which is the true cage, Isabella? The one with velvet walls, or the one made of desperation?"
His words struck a nerve because they were true. My old life had been a prison of anxiety and scarcity. This was a prison of opulent control. Was one truly better?
I hugged my arms around myself, the silk of the dress suddenly feeling cheap and flimsy. "I can't. Not tonight. I can't just… switch off everything I feel."
He studied me for a long moment, the anger slowly receding from his face, replaced by that unreadable mask. He gave a single, curt nod. "You have six days."
The relief was so profound it made me lightheaded. It was a stay of execution, however brief.
"But understand this," he continued, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity. "While you may refuse my bed for now, you cannot refuse this room. You will not leave this house without my permission. You will not attempt to contact anyone outside without my knowledge. Your old life is over. These are not punishments. They are precautions. There are people who would happily use you to hurt me, and you are in no way prepared to deal with that."
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You are a Salvatore," he corrected, as if that explained everything. Perhaps in his world, it did.
He walked to the sideboard and poured another drink, then surprised me by pouring a second, smaller one. He held it out to me. "Drink. You're shaking."
I wanted to refuse, to throw it in his face. But my hands were trembling violently. I took the crystal glass, my fingers brushing his. A jolt, like static, shot up my arm. I took a quick, burning sip. It was smooth, smoky, and expensive.
He watched me drink, his gaze lingering on my throat as I swallowed. Then he turned and began to unknot his bow tie with practiced ease, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket. He moved around the room as if I weren't there, hanging the jacket and placing cufflinks in a velvet tray. It was an intimate, domestic ritual that felt more invasive than a kiss.
"What are you doing?" I asked, panic rising again.
"Going to bed. It's been a long day." He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and dark chest hair. "The bathroom is through there. You'll find everything you need."
He expected to share this room. This bed.
"I'm not sleeping with you," I stated, putting the glass down with a clatter.
"I didn't ask you to," he said, his back to me as he sat on the edge of the massive bed to remove his shoes. "The bed is large enough for a battalion. You can keep to your side."
"I'll sleep in a chair." My eyes landed on a large wingback armchair by the fireplace.
He looked over his shoulder, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Suit yourself."
That was it. No argument. No force. Just… indifference.
It was somehow more disorienting than violence. I stood, stranded in the middle of the room, as he finished undressing down to his tailored trousers and the unbuttoned shirt. He pulled back the black duvet and slid into bed, as if this were any normal night. He picked up a tablet from the nightstand, the blue light illuminating his sharp profile.
He was really going to just… go to sleep.
I felt foolish, overdressed, and utterly lost. I retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. It was a marble cavern with a shower big enough for ten. I peeled off the hateful wedding dress, letting it pool on the floor like a shed skin. I found a plush robe hanging on the door and put it on, the terrycloth swallowing me.
When I emerged, the main lights were off. Only a single lamp glowed on Dante's side of the bed. He was still looking at his tablet, his reading glasses perched on his nose—a detail so unexpectedly ordinary it threw me.
I went to the armchair, curling my legs beneath me. It was deep and soft, but it was a chair. A statement.
Minutes ticked by. The only sounds were the faint hum of the city and the occasional tap of his finger on the screen.
"You'll regret that in the morning," his voice cut through the dark, calm and certain.
I didn't answer. I stared into the cold fireplace, clutching the robe tighter.
A long silence. Then the click of his tablet being set down. The rustle of sheets as he shifted. The lamp went out, plunging the room into near-darkness, lit only by the ambient glow from the park.
I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then his voice came again, lower now, a rumble in the shadows.
"The choice was always yours, Isabella. You just never liked the options."
I didn't have a reply. Because he was right.
I sat in the chair, watching the silhouette of the man in the bed—my husband, my captor, my enigmatic warden—and waited for the dawn. The gilded cage had closed, and its first lesson was the most chilling of all: the most dangerous chains were the ones I had helped to forge.