The mansion smelled like roses and rot.
I stepped carefully down the marble staircase, barefoot, still in the same hoodie and jeans from yesterday. No one had told me where to go or what to do. No one had spoken to me since I was escorted here like some cursed relic the devil didn't know what to do with.
Every corner of the place screamed money. Heavy oil paintings lined the halls. A grand chandelier dripped crystal from the ceiling like frozen tears. The floors were so polished, I could see my reflection in them—pale face, sunken eyes, soul already missing.
"You're not in your cell anymore," a cold voice said behind me.
I jumped, spinning.
Dante.
He stood at the top of the stairs in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoo ink curling down one forearm. The early light poured through the window behind him like it bowed to his presence.
I couldn't speak. My throat tightened.
He started walking down, slow, deliberate. Like a predator that enjoyed letting you watch it hunt.
"You're free to walk around," he said. "This house is yours. Technically."
I stared at him. "Technically?"
He stepped closer. "You're my wife on paper, Amelia. Not in spirit. Not in heart. This is not a love story. Don't mistake comfort for freedom."
I swallowed. "I didn't ask for comfort."
He raised an eyebrow. "No. You just begged for your father's life."
I flinched.
He reached me and paused. His eyes flicked down my frame like he was inspecting something he already bought at full price but regretted.
"You'll be assigned a room. A maid. A guard."
"A guard?" I echoed, heartbeat thudding.
"You didn't think I'd just let you wander, did you?" His tone dropped, like it was almost… amused. "This is still a cage, Amelia. It just has velvet walls."
I clenched my fists.
"Why go through all this?" I asked, anger breaking through the fear. "You could've just let my father die. Why drag me into this?"
He smirked, cold and effortless. "Because pain passed down hurts deeper. I want him to suffer knowing you're mine."
I took a step back, bile rising in my throat.
"You're sick."
He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek.
"And you're owned."
——
The maid assigned to me was young. Maybe twenty. She introduced herself as Inez, with eyes that never quite met mine.
"This way, miss," she said quietly, leading me to a side hallway. "Your room is across from the west garden."
I followed her in silence.
The room was beautiful—too beautiful. White and silver, with a canopy bed and a fireplace. Like a fairy tale right before the witch eats the child.
Inez set folded clothes on the bed. "You'll wear this for breakfast."
I stared at the black dress. "He expects me to dine with him?"
"Yes, miss. Always."
I opened my mouth to ask why, but the look in her eyes shut me up.
She didn't choose this life either.
——
The dining room could feed an army.
It was long, high-ceilinged, with stained-glass windows that cast strange, broken light over the table. Dante sat at the far end, sipping espresso, eyes already on me before I entered.
I walked to my seat slowly, sat without a word.
A steaming plate of eggs, fruit, and toast sat before me. I hadn't eaten in 24 hours.
But my stomach was too twisted to touch anything.
Dante set his cup down. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I wasn't asking."
My jaw clenched.
I picked up the fork.
My hand trembled.
He watched me, silent. Calculating.
After a few bites, he finally spoke. "Your education—community college?"
I blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"You had a scholarship lined up, didn't you?"
I froze. "How do you know that?"
His lips curved. "I make it a point to know everything about what I own."
I pushed my plate away. "Stop calling me that."
"But that's what you are, isn't it?" he asked softly, leaning forward. "Traded. Bought. Bound. Do you want me to lie to you, Amelia? Pretend this is love? Pretend you're not shackled by your father's mistakes?"
Tears burned my eyes.
"No," I whispered. "I just want to go home."
He stood slowly, coming around the table. My pulse screamed.
He reached down and tilted my chin up. His fingers were rough.
"There is no home," he said. "There is only this."
——
Later, I stood by the window in my room, watching the garden sway. Inez had left quietly after unpacking my things—what little I had. One backpack. Some worn books. The photo of my mom that somehow hadn't gotten lost.
I was alone.
But I didn't feel alone.
There were eyes on me.
That's when I saw him.
A man in black leaning against a tree by the garden wall. A gun strapped to his hip. Muscles under his shirt like coiled rope. He met my eyes without blinking.
My personal guard.
My prison warden.
And when I turned away, I heard his voice from behind me.
"I don't like runners."
I gasped and spun around.
He was at the door, arms crossed.
"I'm Matteo," he said. "Boss says I keep you safe. He didn't say from what."
I backed away.
"You're not safe here, little bird," he said, voice like gravel. "So don't test the cage."
And just like that, he walked away.
---
That night, I woke from a nightmare.
Sweating. Heart racing. The echo of my father's screams still in my ears.
I crawled out of bed and cracked the door open. The hallway was dark.
A whisper of movement made me freeze.
Dante.
Standing in front of the window at the end of the hall, back turned, smoking.
I don't know what made me approach him. Maybe I wanted to understand the man who now held my life in his hands. Maybe I wanted to see if there was any part of him that still bled.
I stopped a few steps behind him. "Why me?"
He didn't turn around.
"I told you."
"No. You didn't." My voice was soft. Honest. "There were hundreds of girls you could've picked. If all you wanted was pain, you could've hurt him a thousand ways."
He turned slowly.
His eyes met mine—and for one brief second, I saw something under the cold.
A flicker.
Not warmth. Not regret.
But memory.
"You remind me of someone," he said finally.
"Who?"
He dropped the cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and walked past me.
"I buried her years ago."
And then he was gone.
—