I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, a lone figure in a room so vast and silent it felt like a mausoleum. The sun had set, casting long, menacing shadows across the opulent space. This was my new reality. A gilded cage, furnished with the finest things money could buy, and I was its newest, most unwilling occupant.
A short while later, two of Dante's silent, imposing men arrived with my life packed into a dozen cardboard boxes. They moved with a detached efficiency, placing them on the floor without a word, their presence a stark reminder that even my most personal belongings were now under his control. They left as silently as they came, leaving me alone with the ghosts of my past life.
I unpacked mechanically, my movements stiff and robotic. I hung my simple, worn clothes in the cavernous walk-in closet, where they looked laughably out of place next to the emptiness. I placed my small collection of books on a sleek, modern bookshelf. I set up the framed photos on the nightstand—me and my parents before the accident, me and Mia covered in finger paint. Each item was a relic from a world that no longer felt real, a world I had signed away just hours ago.
At the bottom of the last box, I found it. Adam's old, faded university hoodie. The one I had cried into just yesterday. I pulled it out, the soft, worn fabric a familiar comfort in my hands. I buried my face in it, expecting to find his scent, but it was gone, replaced by the sterile, clean smell of the laundry detergent my landlady used. He was really gone. All of him. And the weight of it, combined with the crushing reality of what I had done, finally broke me. I collapsed onto the floor, clutching the hoodie to my chest, and sobbed. Not the loud, angry sobs from before, but quiet, hopeless tears for the brother I had lost and the woman I was losing.
A polite, firm knock on the door startled me. I quickly wiped my eyes and stood up, my heart pounding. A young woman in a maid's uniform stood in the doorway. "Mr. Russo requests your presence for dinner, ma'am."
The last thing I wanted to do was face him. I wanted to hide in this room, wrap myself in a blanket, and pretend none of this was happening. But I wasn't a guest here. I was an employee, and my first duty was to show up. "Thank you. I'll be right down."
The dining room was another exercise in cold, intimidating luxury. A long, polished mahogany table that could easily seat twenty stretched across the room. Dante sat at the head of it, not eating, but reading through a stack of documents under the light of a modern crystal chandelier. He was already in his element, the king in his castle.
He barely glanced up as I took a seat at the opposite end of the table, the vast distance between us feeling like a chasm. A maid silently placed a plate of perfectly cooked salmon and asparagus in front of me. The food smelled delicious, but my stomach was a tight knot of anxiety. I couldn't eat. I just pushed the food around my plate with a fork, the silence in the room pressing down on me, broken only by the rustle of his papers. He knew I wasn't eating. I could feel his eyes on me occasionally, a brief, assessing glance before returning to his work. He didn't say a word.
After the plates were cleared, he finally spoke, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "The wedding will be in three days. On Saturday."
I looked up, shocked. "Three days? That's… that's so soon."
"It's efficient," he replied, his tone flat. "There's no reason to delay. It will be a small ceremony at the courthouse. Marco and my sister will be the only witnesses. Afterwards, we will have a dinner with a few close associates to announce the marriage." He looked at me then, his gray eyes pinning me in place. "A dress and anything else you require will be provided. Your only job is to show up, act happy, and play the part. Smile for the cameras. Convince them you're a blushing bride."
I felt sick. He wasn't just buying my time; he was buying my emotions, my expressions. He dismissed me with a slight nod, turning his attention back to his papers. The audience was over.
That night, sleep was impossible. I paced the length of the enormous room like a caged animal. I tried the door and found it unlocked, but when I peeked out, I saw two guards stationed at the end of the hallway, their presence a clear, unspoken warning. There was no escape.
My phone felt like a lifeline and a liability. I scrolled through my photos until I found one of Mia, her face beaming. This is why, I reminded myself. For her. To keep that smile safe. I had to do this. I texted Sarah, Adam's ex-wife, a carefully constructed lie. *"Hey! Got a new job opportunity that's moving really fast. It's a live-in position. I'll be out of touch for a bit while I get settled, but I'll explain everything soon. Kiss Mia for me."* The lie tasted like poison in my mouth, but it was a necessary one. I had to cut the ties to protect them.
The next two days passed in a surreal, detached blur. It was like watching a movie of someone else's life. A team of stylists appeared with an array of designer dresses. They settled on a simple, elegant sheath dress made of white silk. It was beautiful, but wearing it felt like putting on a costume for a play I never auditioned for.
A woman with kind eyes and a familiar, piercing gray gaze introduced herself as Isabella, Dante's sister. She was a doctor, she said, and she was friendly, but there was a professional distance to her, a careful curiosity in her eyes as she assessed me. I couldn't tell if she knew the truth or just saw me as another one of her brother's strange acquisitions.
Wedding rings were delivered in a velvet box. Simple, heavy platinum bands. I slipped mine onto my finger when I was alone. It felt cold and foreign, a manacle disguised as jewelry. I stood in front of the mirror, practicing a smile until my cheeks ached, trying to find one that didn't look like a grimace of pain.
On Saturday morning, I woke before dawn, my stomach churning with dread. This was my wedding day. A day that was supposed to be one of the happiest of a woman's life. For me, it felt like a funeral. My own.
I let the hair and makeup artists work on me in silence, transforming me into a perfect, polished bride. When they were done, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was beautiful, poised, and a complete stranger. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, building a wall around my heart. *One year,* I chanted internally. *Just survive one year.*
The courthouse was quiet and sterile. The ceremony took place in a small, wood-paneled room with a bored-looking judge. Marco and Isabella stood as our witnesses, their expressions unreadable. Dante stood beside me, a breathtakingly handsome statue in a perfectly tailored black suit, his face an emotionless mask.
We repeated the standard, hollow vows, our voices the only sound in the room. When it came time to exchange rings, his hand was warm and steady as he slid the platinum band onto my finger. My own hand trembled so badly I could barely do the same.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the judge droned. "You may kiss the bride."
My heart stopped. I hadn't thought of this. Dante turned to me, his expression unchanging. He leaned in, and for a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—something I couldn't name. His lips met mine. It was brief, chaste, and utterly perfunctory, a gesture meant only for the benefit of the judge. But in that fleeting moment of contact, a jolt of unexpected electricity shot through me, a spark of warmth in the freezing cold. It was gone as quickly as it came.
We signed the papers. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Russo."
It was done. I had a new name.
As we exited the courthouse, Dante's hand settled on the small of my back. The touch was possessive, a brand. A handful of photographers were waiting on the steps, their cameras flashing. He had arranged them, of course. I felt his fingers press slightly, a silent command. I smiled. The act had begun.
The car ride to the restaurant was silent. Just as we pulled up, he spoke, his voice low. "You did well. Keep it up tonight." It wasn't a compliment. It was an instruction.
Dinner was in a private room at one of the city's most expensive restaurants. About twenty people were there—Dante's business associates and their perfectly manicured wives. He introduced me simply as "my wife, Ella." I shook hands, smiled, and made meaningless small talk, feeling like an imposter. The women's eyes were sharp, judging my dress, my hair, my background. The men's eyes were worse, assessing me like a new car he'd just purchased.
Dante, to my astonishment, played the part of a doting husband flawlessly. He kept a hand on my waist, laughed as he recounted a sanitized, fictional story of how we met, and looked at me with a manufactured adoration that was terrifyingly convincing. I played my part, too, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm, looking up at him as if he were my entire world.
At one point, an older woman, the wife of one of his associates, cornered me by the bar. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, dear," she said with a kind smile. "Dante seems… different with you. Softer."
I glanced across the room to where he stood, commanding the attention of three other men, his expression as hard and cold as granite. *Softer?* I thought. *This man isn't soft. He's stone to the core.* But I just smiled at her and said, "He's wonderful."
By the time we finally left, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. In the car, the masks came off. The silence returned. "You performed adequately," he said as we pulled through the gates of the mansion. It wasn't praise, just a performance review.
He walked me to my door, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the silent hall. "This is your wing of the house," he stated. "Mine is on the east side. We will not be required to see each other unless it is necessary for appearances."
"Good," I said, the word sharper than I intended.
I saw his jaw tighten, a tiny crack in his icy composure. He looked at me, his eyes dark. "Goodnight, Mrs. Russo."
It was the first time he'd used my new name. It felt like a slap. Before he could say anything else, I turned, entered my room, and closed the door in his face.
I leaned against the wood, my heart hammering. I was alone, still in my wedding dress. I slowly pulled the platinum rings from my finger and stared at them. I was married. Legally, irrevocably married to that man.
I stripped off the silk dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. I scrubbed the makeup from my face until my skin was raw, trying to wash away the feel of his lips, the weight of his name. I changed into my own worn pajamas and climbed into the cold, empty bed.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind a blank slate of exhaustion and shock. Day one of my sentence was complete. Only 364 more to go. I told myself I could do this. I told myself it was just pretend. But the ring on my nightstand, gleaming in the moonlight, felt very, very real.