Isabella's POV
The makeup artist hums softly as she paints my lips the color of sin—blood red. The stylist flits around my bedroom like a nervous bird, muttering about Signor Romano's specific instructions. I sit quietly in my fluffy white robe, legs crossed, pretending I can't feel the noose tightening.
When she finally turns, she's holding up a gown so pristine it looks like it was spun out of light.
A silken white creation—off-shoulder, with delicate beadwork tracing the bodice, the skirt flowing in soft, angelic waves. It's beautiful, ethereal even. The kind of dress meant to make me look untouchable, pure—like a saint carved for display.
I stare at it for a long moment before shaking my head. "No."
The stylist freezes mid-breath. "Signorina?"
"I'm not wearing that."
Her face drains of color. "But your father—"
"Will live," I say, rising from the vanity. "Bring out the burgundy one."
She hesitates, then obeys. The second gown emerges like temptation personified.
A deep burgundy satin, rich and unforgiving. The neckline plunges daringly but not crudely, framed by thin straps that gleam against my skin. The fabric clings to every curve before falling into a slit that slices up my thigh just enough to hint at danger. It's not vulgar—it's art. A provocation disguised as elegance.
The stylist's mouth opens, then closes again. "Your father said—"
"I said," I cut in softly, "the burgundy."
Minutes later, I'm stepping into it. The silk kisses my skin as if it's known me all my life. The makeup artist gives me a nervous look but says nothing as she adds the finishing touches—soft bronze shadow, winged eyeliner, and a faint shimmer of defiance.
When they leave, I take my time in front of the mirror. My dark hair falls in soft curls down my back, catching the low evening light. The contrast between the red of my lips and the deep burgundy of the dress makes me look dangerous. Deliberate.
For the first time in days, I almost feel like myself again.
I slip my feet into black Louis Vuitton heels, fasten my jewelry, then pick up my clutch—wasting just enough time to make sure my father can't stop me. Then I stroll out of my room, every step measured and unapologetic.
When his eyes land on me, they flare with something between fury and disbelief.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he demands. "What happened to the dress I chose?"
I tilt my head, pretending innocence. "Oh, that one? It didn't feel right."
"Didn't—" He cuts himself off, jaw flexing.
"Well," I say smoothly, glancing at the clock, "we wouldn't want to be late, would we? This is such an important dinner."
For a moment, the silence burns hotter than his temper. Then I turn and walk toward the door before he can decide whether to shout or strangle me.
Behind me, I can feel his seething. It makes the corner of my mouth lift into a small, victorious smile.
In the foyer, Dante waits in his crisp black suit, hair slicked back, eyes wary. When he catches sight of me, his brows shoot up.
"What are you doing?" he whispers as I take his arm.
"Keeping things interesting," I murmur, winking as I step into the car.
The ride is quiet until my father finally speaks, voice low and controlled.
"You will play your part tonight, Isabella. You will be polite, composed, and agreeable. Is that understood?"
I stare out the window, watching the city lights flicker past. "Of course, Papa. I wouldn't dream of embarrassing you."
He doesn't catch the venom laced beneath my calm tone—or maybe he chooses not to.
The restaurant is called La Fenice—The Phoenix. Naples' crown jewel. It's one of those places that doesn't need to prove its exclusivity; the silence and the marble do it for you.
Soft candlelight pools across tables draped in ivory linen, gold-edged glasses gleam like promises, and every movement of the staff is rehearsed perfection. The air smells faintly of saffron, wine, and wealth.
At the entrance, the maître d' doesn't ask for a name—he simply nods and leads us toward the back. The Romano name opens doors before it's even spoken.
As we walk through, I feel the eyes.
Women glance up with envy, men with a mix of lust and fear.
The Romano family rules Naples, and everyone here knows it. My father thrives on that kind of reverence. Me? I just feel the weight of it pressing down like a crown I never asked to wear.
We're led through a velvet-lined corridor to a private alcove near the back. And there he is.
Damiano Bianchi.
Dark suit. Crisp shirt. A watch that probably costs more than most cars. He sits with perfect posture, one hand resting on a crystal tumbler, his expression unreadable.
When his eyes lift and find me, I feel the impact like static under my skin. He doesn't smile. Doesn't move. Just studies me with that cool, assessing gaze that strips away pretense and leaves nerve.
He stands as we approach, his hand briefly brushing mine as he presses a polite kiss to my knuckles. His lips are cool. His eyes, anything but.
"Signorina Romano," he murmurs.
"Damiano," I return, my tone smooth, careful.
He pulls out my chair himself—a gesture that feels more like ownership than chivalry.
Before my father can speak, Damiano says evenly, "Before we begin, I took the liberty of ordering for us."
Of course he did.
A server arrives with silver-domed plates. Before the covers are lifted, the scent of truffle and seared beef already fills the air. Filetto al Tartufo Nero—prime filet mignon with black truffle, served with roasted vegetables and a drizzle of red wine reduction. Opulent, excessive, and utterly Bianchi.
We eat. Small talk at first. My father discusses business with the ease of a man reciting scripture. Damiano responds in that steady, measured way of his—every word precise, deliberate.
When the main course is cleared, they shift to the engagement. Guest lists, venues, security—the logistics of a merger disguised as matrimony.
"The Palazzo Romano will host the event," my father says. "Our family name belongs at the center."
"Of course," Damiano answers smoothly. "My assistant will coordinate with yours."
Occasionally, they remember I'm here, tossing me trivialities—floral arrangements, décor, color palettes.
I nod, smile, play the part. Inside, every polite word tastes like ash.
"Excuse me. I need to take this," my father says, stepping out.
And just like that, we're alone.
The silence stretches, threaded with unspoken challenge.
I lean back in my chair. "Do you always do what my father tells you?"
Damiano looks at me over the rim of his glass. "Only when it serves me."
I arch a brow. "And this—" I gesture between us, "does this serve you?"
"More than you think." His voice is low, his gaze steady. "But don't mistake civility for surrender."
"This won't work."
A corner of his mouth curves—not a smile, more like curiosity. "You say that like you think you have a choice."
I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. "I always have a choice. Even when I don't."
That gets his attention. He studies me for a long beat, his expression unreadable but his interest undeniable.
"You're going to make this difficult, aren't you?"
"I'd hate to be predictable."
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe even respect—but it's gone before I can name it.
"I don't mind difficult," he says finally. "It makes the reward more… satisfying."
The air between us tightens, dangerous and heavy. I force myself to look away first.
My father returns moments later, mood improved, oblivious to the silent war playing out between us. "I trust everything went well?"
"Perfectly," Damiano says smoothly.
They shake hands as if sealing a deal. And in a way, they are.
On the drive home, my father hums with satisfaction. Dante stares out the window. And me?
I sit there in silence, watching the darkened streets of Naples slip past, each one filled with ghosts of choices I never got to make.
But somewhere inside, beneath the exhaustion and fury, something sharp begins to stir.
If this is the game they want me to play—
Then I'll play it better than both of them.