I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a disorienting second, I didn't know where I was. The high ceiling, the unfamiliar scent of lavender and linen, the weight of the silk sheets—it all came crashing back. I wasn't in my tiny, cluttered apartment. I was in a gilded cage. I was married. I was Mrs. Dante Russo.
A polite knock sounded at the door, and a maid I didn't recognize entered with a silver tray. "Good morning, Mrs. Russo. Mr. Russo has already left for the day. He instructed that you are to rest."
She placed the tray on a small table by the window. It was laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and coffee. It was a prisoner's breakfast. After she left, I wandered into the walk-in closet. Overnight, it had been filled. Racks of expensive clothes—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, tailored trousers—all in my size, hung in neat, sterile rows. The tags had all been removed. He was dressing me like a doll, erasing every last trace of the simple kindergarten teacher I used to be.
After forcing down some coffee, I decided I couldn't stay in that room for another second. I needed to know the layout of my prison. I slipped out into the hallway, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The mansion was vast and eerily quiet, more like a corporate headquarters than a home. I passed countless closed doors, wondering what secrets they held.
I found the library. It was the one room in the house that didn't feel cold. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with thousands of volumes. I ran my fingers over the leather-bound spines—classics, philosophy, history, art. It was the library of a scholar, not a mob boss. The contradiction was jarring. Who was this man who ordered lives destroyed but read Plato in his spare time?
I pulled a worn copy of *Pride and Prejudice* from a shelf, the familiarity of it a small comfort. I curled up in a deep leather armchair, losing myself in a world far from my own. I must have been there for an hour before a shadow fell over me.
A guard stood a few feet away, his expression apologetic but firm. "Ma'am. You shouldn't wander the house alone."
I startled, my heart jumping into my throat. "I live here now," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Am I not allowed to walk around my own home?"
The guard looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Russo's orders, ma'am. It's for your safety."
*For my surveillance,* I translated silently. I was not to be protected; I was to be watched.
A few minutes later, Marco found me. He was always polite, his handsome face a mask of professional courtesy, but his eyes held the same unyielding firmness as his boss. He explained the house rules.
"For security reasons, you are not to leave the grounds without permission and an escort," he began, his tone patient. "Mr. Russo's private wing on the east side of the house is off-limits. Please do not question the staff about Mr. Russo's business. And your phone…" He gestured to my old phone on the table. "It presents a security risk. We've provided you with a new one."
He handed me a brand-new, top-of-the-line smartphone. "It has been secured. You will be able to call a list of pre-approved numbers—your niece's mother has been included. All other communications will be monitored."
The anger that had been simmering inside me finally boiled over. "So I am a prisoner."
Marco's expression didn't change. "You are protected, Mrs. Russo. There is a difference."
"Is there?" I shot back, my voice trembling with rage. He didn't answer.
Lunch was another lonely, formal affair in the cavernous dining room. The staff served me a three-course meal that was far too elaborate for one person. I ate in silence, feeling like an exhibit in a museum, the priceless artifact that the owner kept locked away. This was my life now: suffocating luxury and profound loneliness.
That afternoon, I received my first visitor. Isabella, Dante's sister, breezed into the garden where I was sitting, her presence a welcome burst of warmth in the cold, sterile environment.
"Finally! I was hoping I'd get a chance to meet you properly," she said, her smile genuine. She was the complete opposite of her brother—open, friendly, and warm. We sat and talked, and for the first time since I'd entered this house, I felt a flicker of normal human connection. She was curious about me, but her questions were kind, not prying.
"How are you adjusting to all this?" she asked gently, gesturing to the sprawling, immaculate grounds.
I was careful with my answer, not yet sure who I could trust. "It's… a lot to take in."
She nodded, her expression sympathetic. "I can only imagine. My brother… he's complicated." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "He can be difficult. But he's not a monster, Ella."
I looked at her, at her kind, earnest face, and thought, *You have no idea what I know. You don't know what he's capable of.* But I just gave her a small, noncommittal smile. Her company was a relief, a brief respite from the crushing isolation.
That evening, I retreated back to the library. I was deep into my book when the doors opened. Dante stood there, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened at his throat. It was the first time I had seen him look anything less than perfectly, impeccably composed. We both froze for a second, surprised to see each other.
"You found the library," he stated, his voice a low rumble.
"Is it off-limits, too?" I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
He ignored it. He walked over to a small bar cart in the corner and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy crystal glass. "What are you reading?"
I held up the book. His eyes flickered to the cover. "Good taste," he said, and he almost sounded surprised. It was a tiny crack in his armor, a sliver of the man behind the monster. He offered me a drink, which I declined, and then he did something unexpected. He sat in the armchair across from me. He was engaging with me, not as a boss to a subordinate, but as… something else.
"How was your day?" he asked, the question sounding stiff and perfunctory on his lips.
"Quiet," I answered shortly.
He took a sip of his whiskey. "We have an event to attend on Friday. A charity gala for the city hospital. You'll need to be ready by seven."
"Another performance," I said, my voice flat.
His eyes sharpened, the brief moment of connection vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "Yes," he said, his voice turning cold again. "And you will be convincing." He stood abruptly, finishing his drink in one swallow. "Goodnight." And just like that, he was gone.
I sat there for a long time, my mind reeling. For a fleeting moment, in this room, he had almost seemed… human. But the wall had gone back up instantly, thicker and colder than before. He was a confusing, dangerous puzzle, and I reminded myself that I couldn't afford to try and solve it. He was the enemy. I couldn't forget that.
The next few days blurred into a monotonous routine: wake up, breakfast alone, wander the gilded cage, read in the library, lunch alone. Isabella visited once more, and her visits became the only thing I looked forward to. I barely saw Dante. We had one excruciatingly awkward encounter in an elevator, the small, enclosed space crackling with a tension so thick I could barely breathe. I could hear the staff whispering about me as I passed, the new, mysterious Mrs. Russo. I pretended not to notice, but their whispers only amplified my sense of isolation.
Friday arrived all too soon. The stylists descended on me again, a whirlwind of hairspray and makeup brushes. The dress they'd chosen was a masterpiece of emerald green silk that clung to my body in ways that made me blush. When they were finished, I stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror was a stranger—sophisticated, expensive, and dangerously beautiful. She didn't look like a kindergarten teacher. She looked like a mafia wife.
I took a deep breath and made my way down the grand, curving staircase. Dante was waiting in the foyer, looking devastatingly handsome in a classic black tuxedo. He was in the middle of saying something to Marco when he looked up and saw me. He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes, dark and intense, did a slow, deliberate sweep from my head to my toes. And for the first time, I saw something other than cold calculation in his gaze. I saw want. It was raw and primal, and it made my stomach flutter in a way I hated. He masked it in an instant, his face becoming a blank slate once more.
"You look acceptable," he said, but his voice was a fraction rougher than usual. He offered me his arm. I took it, my fingers brushing against the fine wool of his jacket. The strength in his arm was palpable.
The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife. He briefed me on the event, listing the names of important people I needed to remember and the topics of conversation to avoid. His hand rested on the seat behind me, not touching me, but so close I was hyper-aware of his presence. I could smell his cologne, an expensive, masculine scent of sandalwood and leather. I hated that I noticed. I hated that my body was reacting to him against my will. *It's just a year,* I told myself fiercely. *Don't feel anything.*
As we pulled up to the hotel, the entrance was flooded with the blinding light of flashbulbs. Dante's hand moved from the seat to my waist, his fingers gripping me with a firm, possessive pressure. He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear.
"Smile," he whispered, his warm breath sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "You're madly in love with me."
I plastered the smile I had practiced onto my face and let him lead me into the lion's den.
The ballroom was a glittering, opulent sea of jewels and champagne. As we entered, a hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes turned to us. The whispers followed in our wake. "That's Dante Russo… and his new wife." I felt like a prize pony on display, every aspect of my being scrutinized and judged.
Dante guided me through the crowd, introducing me to men with cold eyes and dangerous smiles. I shook their hands, smiled, and played my part. But one man's stare lingered too long. He was handsome, with a cruel twist to his lips, and his eyes held a look of pure venom as they flickered between me and Dante. Dante noticed. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer against his side. I couldn't tell if the gesture was protective or purely possessive. Maybe, in his world, they were the same thing.
I was Cinderella at the ball, trapped in a beautiful fantasy. Except my prince was the villain of the story. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that when the clock struck midnight, I wouldn't turn back into myself. I would still be his wife. His possession. His perfect, smiling lie.