Rose finally fell asleep after thinking about any and everything and before she realized morning broke through heavy curtains like an intruder, spilling golden light across the cold floor of her new bedroom. She hadn't realized when sleep took her, only that she'd passed out fully dressed, veil discarded on the edge of the bed like some tragic relic from the day before.
She stretched out her stiff limbs, as she yawned. A knock came—not timid, not patient, but sharp and insistent.
Before she could even gather her thoughts, the door creaked open.
"Good morning, Rose."
The voice was clipped, smooth, and unfamiliar.
Rose blinked through the light. A tall, elegantly dressed woman stepped inside. She wore a pale blue dress that hugged her slender figure, her silver-blonde hair could radiate light of it. The diamonds around her neck didn't scream wealth—they whispered it. Commanded it.
"Hello baby. You're still in bed? Anyways I thought a little house tour might help you adjust faster," the woman said.
Rose sat up slowly. "And you are…?"
The woman's lips curled faintly. "Your mother-in-law. Call me Mrs. Salvadore."
Of course.
Rose swung her legs off the bed, hiding the fact that she was still a little disoriented. She couldn't afford to appear weak—not now.
Dante's mother wasn't at the wedding because she had a charity organization that couldn't be postponed. She didn't like the ways of her husband and children so she thought sharing the money to those who needed might help reduce her guilt. Rose didn't see her much and the few times she saw her she wasn't paying attention . She was distorted.
"I wasn't expecting company this early," Rose murmured, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
Mrs. Salvadore offered her a once-over glance, then turned sharply. "Come. The staff has already prepared the garden for breakfast. We'll start from the East Wing."
Reluctantly, Rose followed.
The Salvadore mansion was a kingdom on its own. Room after room unfolded before her—each more classy than the last. A private library with shelves that touched the ceiling. An indoor conservatory full of rare orchids. A gallery of oil paintings spanning generations of the Salvadore line. Every corner bore the weight of history, of taste passed down through bloodlines and backdoor dealings.
"And this," Mrs. Salvadore said as they passed under an arched hallway, "is the Red Room. It used to be Dante's grandfather's favorite room for cigars and discussions with foreign diplomats."
Rose tried to keep her expression neutral. "Impressive."
Mrs. Salvadore turned slightly, a small smirk lifting her lips. "I sense sarcasm."
Rose met her gaze. "No. Just processing. A lot to take in for someone who lived in a two-bedroom apartment until last week."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then Mrs. Salvadore walked on.
They entered the dining room, where a delicate breakfast spread was already set—fresh fruit, pastries, imported teas. The garden buzzed quietly in the distance with bees and hummingbirds. It would've been beautiful if Rose didn't feel so watched.
She took a seat, pouring herself some tea while Mrs. Salvadore examined her like a foreign object.
"So, what exactly do you plan to do with your new title?" the older woman asked, sipping from her cup.
"I plan to keep my job," Rose said simply.
"Your job?" Mrs. Salvadore arched her brow. "You mean that hospital you worked at before?"
"Yes."
A beat.
"And you think it's appropriate for the wife of a Salvadore to go running around clinics, tending to strangers? And I think you should consider wanting to keep your marriage a secret."
Rose narrowed her eyes. "With all due respect, Ma'am, I'm not here to play porcelain doll. I made sacrifices to become a doctor. I'm not giving that up because your son bought a gown and dragged me down an aisle."
There was a silence so sharp it could slice skin.
Then the smile returned to Mrs. Salvadore's face—thin, icy. "Well, I suppose ambition comes in many forms. You may find, however, that not everything is yours to keep in this house."
Rose stood abruptly. "Thank you for the tour. I'll be going now. I have work."
Mrs. Salvadore looked mildly taken aback. "You're leaving now?"
"I said I have work," Rose repeated. "Unlike others, some of us don't live off ancient fortunes."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.
She had just made it to the front hall when she saw him.
Dante.
Leaning against the column with his arms crossed, suit jacket unbuttoned, expression unreadable.
"Did you just yell at her," he said flatly.
"It was a mere conversation."
"You could've been polite."
"I was—at first. Then she started judging my job like it's some kind of disease."
"She's my mother."
"And I'm not your servant."
Their voices echoed against the marble walls.
Dante stepped forward, his eyes colder than usual. "I don't care how smart or righteous you think you are. In this family, respect isn't optional."
"And neither is self-respect," Rose shot back. "I won't bow to your mother just because she lives in a palace, collects art like trophies and is your mother."
He exhaled, visibly trying to calm himself. "Don't cross her again."
Before he could say more, a voice rang out from behind them.
"Let her go, Dante."
Mrs. Salvadore stood in the doorway, completely composed.
"She's young. And this marriage was never her choice." Then she looked directly at Rose. "Though I do suggest you watch that tongue of yours. It may cost more than you can afford."
Rose didn't flinch. "Thanks for the advice." She said sarcastically.
Mrs. Salvadore turned back to her son. "I like her." Let her be. She reminds me so much of myself when I was young. She said letting out a slight chuckle.
Rose's hospital badge felt like armor as she stepped into the staff entrance later that morning. The familiar scent of antiseptic, the distant beep of machines, the occasional chaos—it all made more sense than the cold perfection of the Salvadore mansion.
She reviewed a couple of charts. Checked in on a recovering patient. Consulted with a nurse about the afternoon's shift rotations. It was brief, but enough to remind her of who she was outside that family name.
She stepped out by mid-afternoon, the sunlight feeling more honest than chandeliers ever could.
She didn't want the working hours to end. But it did.
She returned to the estate, and Dante was waiting again.
This time in the garden, arms folded, jaw tight.
"You're late."
"I didn't know I needed permission on when to return home," Rose replied, breezing past him.
He grabbed her wrist—not hard, but firm enough.
"Let go," she said.
He did, reluctantly. "Next time, you tell someone before you leave the house. You're a Salvadore now. You don't just walk off like some street kid with a bus pass."
Rose spun on him. "I didn't ask for this name. And I sure as hell won't let it become a leash."
His eyes darkened. "You're playing with fire, Rose."
She stepped closer, her voice low and controlled. "And you forget—fire doesn't scare me."
They stood there, breathing each other's fury, until a soft voice interrupted them.
"Mr. Salvadore? You're needed in the study."
A butler. Timid. Discreet.
Dante didn't take his eyes off her.
"We'll continue this later," he said.
"Looking forward to it," she replied dryly.
That night, Rose found herself unable to sleep again. She sat by the window of her grand bedroom, legs tucked under her, watching the moon hang low over the Salvadore estate.
Everything about this life felt manufactured: chains, polished masks, rules enforced with smiles and threats.
But one thing was clear now: She would not be their pawn. Not Dante's. Not his mother's. Not the
ghosts in the hallway.
Her life didn't end at that altar.
It had just begun.
And hell would freeze over before she let anyone tell her who she could be.