The night air was thick, and the silence inside our grand villa screamed louder than any argument could. I had just returned from my art class—a rare escape I was allowed in the chaos of our world. I stepped inside, sensing something off. The staff were quieter than usual, avoiding my gaze like they knew something I didn't.
I found my father in his study. He was swirling a glass of dark liquor, his brows drawn in contemplation. One look at him, and I knew something was wrong.
"Sit down, Serena," he said.
Those words never led to anything good.
I perched stiffly on the edge of the leather chair across from him, my fingers curling into the fabric of my jeans.
"You're getting married."
The words fell like a bomb.
I blinked. "What?"
He didn't look up. "To Dominic Moretti."
My mouth went dry. That name—Moretti—was one I'd heard whispered in hushed tones since I was little. The Morettis were powerful. Dangerous. Untouchable. And Dominic? The oldest son. The king-in-waiting of a mafia empire.
I shook my head slowly. "You can't be serious."
He looked at me now, eyes hardened. "It's already done."
Rage boiled in my chest. "You traded me like I'm nothing! Like I'm some pawn!"
His jaw clenched. "Watch your tone."
"I'm your daughter! Not a business transaction!"
"You're my blood, Serena. That's exactly why you're valuable. This marriage ends a ten-year tension. It brings peace between our families. It makes you powerful."
I stood. "I don't care about power! I don't want him."
He raised his voice slightly. "You don't have to want him. You have to marry him."
I stormed out, heart racing, feet pounding against the marble floor as I ascended the stairs to my room. I slammed the door and collapsed onto my bed, trying to breathe through the rage.
Dominic Moretti. I hadn't seen him since I was seventeen. I remembered the way he'd stared at me at my father's birthday party. Like he already owned me. Like he knew one day, this moment would come.
And now it had.
The next morning, I refused to come down for breakfast. I ignored my father's knocks. My stepmother's offers of tea. The staff's worried glances.
When I finally did go downstairs, it was because I had no choice. I found my father in the dining room, sitting across from a man I recognized instantly.
Dominic.
He stood when I entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His dark hair was neatly styled, his face sculpted like it had been carved from stone. Eyes—ice cold—tracked me like a target.
"Serena," he said with that deep, unreadable voice.
I folded my arms. "Dominic."
A corner of his mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. More like a warning.
My father gestured to the seat beside Dominic. "Sit."
I stayed standing.
Dominic finally spoke again. "You don't have to like it. But it's happening."
"I'm not some... object. You can't just take me."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"No. But I can protect you, Serena. In ways you don't even understand yet. You may hate me now. You might hate me for a long time. But when the dust settles, you'll see. This world we live in? You need someone like me."
His voice wasn't angry. It was calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
I looked away. "When is it? The wedding."
"Ten days."
I laughed bitterly. "Of course. Plenty of time to pick out a dress."
The next days were a blur of chaos. Wedding planners. Security briefings. Guest lists filled with dangerous men and their jeweled wives. I didn't get a say in anything. Not the flowers. Not the vows. Not even the venue.
Dominic didn't reach out. He didn't try to talk to me. He just waited. Like a hunter biding his time.
I cried myself to sleep three nights in a row.
The fourth night, I stood in front of the mirror in my room, staring at my reflection. My eyes were tired. My lips trembling. I was nineteen. He was twenty-five. And in a few days, I'd be his wife.
I touched my collarbone, imagining his hands there.
No.
I hated him. I hated what he stood for.
But a small part of me—the part I hated most—was scared not of him, but of what I might become when he touched me like I was his.
Because there was something in his gaze I hadn't expected.
Obsession.
Not lust. Not duty.
Obsession.
And obsession, I knew, was far more dangerous than love.
The fifth night, I couldn't sleep.
The villa was too quiet, the silence pressing down like a second skin. I got up, pulled on a robe, and padded barefoot down the hallway. My room had started to feel like a prison, the gilded walls suffocating, the windows too high to scream through.
I wasn't sure where I was going—maybe nowhere—but my feet led me anyway. Past the library. Past the drawing room. Toward the back of the house.
That's when I saw him.
Dominic.
Leaning against the balcony railing just outside the study. Cigarette between his fingers, suit jacket tossed over the chair beside him. The moonlight carved shadows into his face, and for a split second, he looked like someone tragic. Not dangerous. Just... tired.
He didn't turn when he spoke. "Couldn't sleep?"
I froze.
"I don't want to talk to you," I said softly.
He took a slow drag, then exhaled. "Then don't. Just stand there."
And I did. For too long. Watching the way his shoulders moved when he breathed, the curve of his spine, the tension in his neck. I hated that my body noticed. I hated that I was aware of him in this strange, burning way.
"Why me?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the night breeze. "Why not someone willing?"
He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Because willing girls bore me. And because you belong to a man who makes deals in blood. And I'm the one he fears most."
I stepped onto the balcony, arms crossed. "So this is about control?"
He looked at me then. Really looked.
"No. This is about survival. And I don't think you've ever really understood what your last name costs."
I didn't answer. Because deep down, I knew he was right.
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. "You think I want this? You think I enjoy forcing a girl into a dress and pretending it's love?"
I swallowed. "You sure act like it."
His jaw ticked. "Because if I don't, someone else will. Someone worse."
My voice cracked. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
"No. It's supposed to warn you."
We stood in silence, the weight of our fates stretching between us.
Then, softer, he said, "I won't hurt you, Serena. Not unless you ask me to."
My breath caught.
Because there was something in the way he said it. Something laced with promise. With fire.
And God help me, some twisted part of me wanted to ask.
The morning of the engagement dinner arrived too soon.
I was fitted into an ivory silk dress, diamonds draped on my neck like shackles. The stylist fussed with my hair while I stared blankly at the mirror.
"You look breathtaking," she said.
I didn't feel it.
Downstairs, guests had begun to arrive. High-ranking men with cold eyes. Women with razor smiles. Cameras. Guards. Toasts poured like wine, and laughter echoed too loud.
Then Dominic walked in.
And everything fell quiet.
He wore a tailored black suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar like he owned the world and had nothing to prove. His eyes found me instantly, like he'd felt me from across the room.
He walked toward me.
Everyone watched.
He reached out and took my hand, lifting it to his lips. "You clean up well."
"You mean I clean up like a bribe?" I muttered.
He smirked. "I like you mouthy. Makes the taming more interesting."
My cheeks burned—part fury, part something far more dangerous.
We posed for pictures, our bodies close, our smiles fake. But his hand on my back was real. Firm. Steady. Possessive.
And later, when no one was looking, he leaned down and whispered against my ear—"In ten days, you become mine."
I should have been terrified.
Instead, I shivered.
Because some monsters didn't need to bare teeth.
They just had to say your name.
The next morning, I refused to get out of bed.
The curtains remained shut, my phone lay face-down on the nightstand, buzzing with messages I had no desire to read. My ivory gown from last night lay crumpled across the armchair, like the discarded version of a girl who smiled for the cameras and pretended she wasn't drowning.
I hadn't cried. Not during the fitting. Not during the dinner. Not even after Dominic whispered that twisted promise into my ear. But now… I could feel it building. Something heavy. Something sharp. Like a dam about to crack.
A soft knock at my door broke the silence.
"Go away," I croaked, voice hoarse from sleep—or maybe from the unshed tears lodged in my throat.
But the door opened anyway.
Only one person in my world ever ignored my walls like that.
"Serena?" Elara's voice was cautious, gentle. She peeked her head in, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. "I brought muffins. And emotional support."
I turned away, burying deeper into my duvet. "I'm not in the mood."
"Well, too bad," she said, slipping in and kicking the door closed behind her. "Because you're getting the full 'best friend barges in with caffeine and carbs' treatment whether you want it or not."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
She walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, setting the coffee on the nightstand. "You weren't answering my texts. Or my calls. I had to bribe your guard to let me in."
I blinked at the ceiling, silent.
"Talk to me, Rena," she whispered.
My throat tightened.
And just like that, the dam cracked.
I turned my face toward her, and the tears finally came. Slow at first. Then all at once.
Elara reached for me instantly, pulling me into her arms like she'd been waiting for this. Like she'd known I'd shatter eventually.
"I can't do this," I sobbed into her shoulder. "I can't marry him."
She held me tighter. "Then don't."
"I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice."
"Not for people like me," I choked. "Not when your father sees you as a bargaining chip. Not when your last name is written in bullets and blood."
Elara didn't argue. She knew better. She'd grown up around this world—maybe not in it, not fully—but close enough to understand its cruelty. Its cages.
"You want me to run?" I whispered. "Where would I even go? The Ashbourne name is like a leash. And Dominic—he's not just some spoiled heir. He's... something else."
Elara pulled back slightly to look at me. Her expression was fierce now. "Then we fight him. We find a way to get you out of this. There has to be a way."
I laughed bitterly. "Fight him? El, he threatened to destroy my father. Said he wanted someone unwilling. Said I belong to a man who makes deals in blood, and he's the one he fears most."
Her brows furrowed. "Wait, he said that?"
I nodded. "And he wasn't bluffing. He's not marrying me for love, El. He's marrying me to win. To prove a point. I'm just... leverage."
She looked like she wanted to scream. Instead, she reached for the muffin bag and shoved one into my hand. "Eat. Cry. Scream. Whatever you need. And then we figure this out. Together."
I stared down at the blueberry muffin.
Then I laughed, wet and cracked. "Do you remember that summer we swore we'd never end up like our mothers?"
"Yeah," she said with a sad smile. "You said you'd rather become a nun than marry a guy just because he wore an expensive watch."
I wiped my cheek. "Guess I'm about to be a nun with a diamond ring."
Elara reached for my hand, her voice low. "He might own your name, Rena. But he doesn't get to own you."
We sat in silence for a while. The kind that only exists between people who've shared too many secrets to lie now.
Then she stood. "Get dressed. We're going out."
I blinked. "Where?"
"Somewhere you can scream without anyone hearing."
I sniffled. "You're serious?"
She smirked. "Have I ever not been?"
Elara dragged me out of bed, helped me throw on a hoodie and leggings, and stuffed me into her car. We drove for almost an hour—out of the city, past the polished mansions and security cameras—until we reached a cliffside trail overlooking the ocean.
"I used to come here with my mom," she said, parking. "Before she got married the second time. She said the sea made her feel free."
I stepped out, the salty breeze whipping against my skin. The waves crashed against the rocks below like thunder, and the sky stretched endlessly above us, pale blue and wild.
Elara grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the edge.
"On the count of three," she said, "we scream."
I blinked. "What?"
"One."
"El—"
"Two."
"This is stupid—"
"Three!"
She screamed first. Loud. Raw. Fierce.
And then I screamed too.
And it wasn't stupid at all.
It was release.
It was rebellion.
It was mine.
We collapsed into the grass afterward, breathless and laughing, our lungs aching.
"Feel better?" she asked.
I nodded. "A little."
"Good. Because tomorrow, we start planning your escape."
I turned my head to her. "Escape?"
Elara's eyes were glittering with something dangerous. "You think I'm going to let you marry a mafia prince without a fight?"
For the first time in days, I smiled.
Not because I wasn't still trapped.
But because I finally remembered—I wasn't alone.