The reception passed in a blur of champagne, forced smiles, and hugs from people I barely knew. Dante remained by my side the entire time, playing the role of devoted husband perfectly—his hand on my back, whispering jokes in my ear to make me smile for photos, pushing intrusive guests away when he sensed I was overwhelmed.
It was disconcerting how easily he seemed to read my signals.
As the sun began to set, tinting the sky oranges and pinks, the guests finally began to depart. My parents were the last to leave, my mother hugging me with unusual strength.
"Call me every day," she whispered. "And if you need anything, anything at all..."
"I'll be fine, Mom," I assured her, willing myself to believe my own words.
My father squeezed Dante's hand with a meaningful look. "Remember what you promised."
"Always," Dante replied solemnly. And then they were gone, and it was just the two of us. Husband and wife. Legally bound for twelve months.
"Come," Dante said, offering his hand. "I'll show you the house. Your house now."
I took his hand because I didn't know what else to do. He led me back into the mansion, through marble hallways and absurdly large rooms, until we stopped before a pair of double doors on the second floor.
"Our room," he announced, pushing open the doors.
"Our" made me gasp, but when I stepped inside, I saw he'd been careful with the word. The room was enormous—the size of an entire apartment—with a king-size bed that looked like it was made for giants, a fireplace, a sitting area with plush sofas, and doors leading to a walk-in closet and bathroom.
And, most importantly, a second door on the opposite side.
"That's your room," Dante pointed. "Completely private. It has its own bed, bathroom, closet. Lock on the door if you want it." This one—he gestured to the space we were in—is just for show. If anyone on the team asks, or if we have visitors, we sleep together. But in reality…
"Separate rooms," I finished, relieved and strangely disappointed at the same time. "Thank you. For thinking of that."
"I said I'd respect you." He loosened his tie, the first sign of fatigue he'd shown all day. "But there are some… rules we need to establish. To make this work."
Of course. Rules. Because everything with Dante was a transaction, an agreement, a contract.
"Okay," I agreed, kicking off the heels that had been killing me for hours. "Let's hear it."
He walked to a bar built into the wall and poured two glasses of whiskey. He offered one to me.
"You'll need it," he said with a half-smile.
I took the glass and sat on one of the sofas. Dante sat in the opposite chair, keeping an appropriate distance. Even so, his presence filled the space. "Rule number one," he began, taking a sip, "public appearances. We've already discussed this, but it's worth reiterating. When we're in public, we're a couple in love. Appropriate physical contact, displays of affection, we sell the story."
"Understood." I took a sip of the whiskey and almost coughed. It was strong, smooth, probably more expensive than my monthly rent.
"Rule number two: privacy. What happens between these walls is ours. We don't discuss our agreement with anyone. Not family, not friends, not anyone. The world believes this is real."
"Even my best friend?" I asked, thinking of Sophia, who was studying abroad and couldn't make the wedding.
"Especially your best friend." His voice was firm. "A secret stops being a secret when more than two people know. Trust me on this."
I didn't like it, but he was right. "Okay. Next rule."
"Rule number three: the staff." He gestured vaguely. "We have staff. Chef, housekeeper, driver, security." They're discreet and loyal, but they're not fools. We need to keep up the facade even with them.
"How many people work here?"
"Twelve full-time. A few more part-time." He said it as if it were normal to have a team the size of an entire department. "You'll meet them tomorrow. They're good people. They'll respect you."
Twelve employees. My God, what world had I walked into?
"Rule number four," he continued, "personal space. You have complete freedom to decorate, move, do whatever you want with your room and any other space you wish to claim. This is your home as much as mine. I don't want you to feel like a guest."
"That's… generous," I admitted, surprised.
"It's practical." That word again. "You'll live here for a year. You should feel comfortable."
"Next?" I was starting to feel like I was in a business meeting.
"Rule number five: finances. You have access to a joint account with a monthly allowance of fifty thousand. Use as you wish, no questions asked. Also"—he took a black credit card from his wallet and placed it on the small table between us—"an unlimited card for emergencies."
I stared at the card like it was a snake. "I don't need your money."
"You do if you're going to maintain the lifestyle appropriate for my wife." It wasn't said arrogantly, simply fact. "You'll have events to attend, appropriate clothes to buy, social obligations." This requires resources.
"I have my own money."
"Which you'll save." He pushed the card closer. "Please, Isabella. Let me do this. It's not much, considering what I'm asking of you."
Reluctantly, I took the card. It felt like it weighed a ton.
"Rule number six"—his voice grew more serious now—"outside romantic involvement. We already covered this in the contract, but it bears repeating. Zero tolerance. If you want someone else, we need to end the agreement first. But while we're married..."
"Fidelity. Got it." I looked at him directly. "And you? Do you have anyone I need to know about?"
"No." The answer was immediate. "I ended my last relationship eight months ago. Since then, nothing serious."
"And nothing non-serious?"
Something flashed in his eyes. "A few casual encounters. Nothing that meant anything." He leaned forward. "But since that night at the hotel, no one. And there won't be anyone as long as you wear my ring." The intensity in his gaze made me swallow hard. "Okay. Good."
"Rule number seven," he continued after a moment, "honesty between us. I know we lie to the world. But here, in this space, only truths. If something bothers you, say so. If you need space, say so. Communication is crucial."
"I agree." I really appreciated that rule. "Can I add one?"
He arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Of course."
"No yelling." My voice came out quieter than intended. "I grew up in a house where no one yelled. Arguments were... civilized. If we're going to fight, and we will, can we do it without yelling?"
Something softened in his face. "No yelling. I promise." He paused. "Did your ex yell?"
"Ricardo?" I laughed humorlessly. "No. He was worse. He'd give me that icy silence, the silent treatment, for days. It made me feel invisible."
"He's an idiot." Dante's voice was thick with contempt. "And if he tries to get close to you again..."
"What are you going to do? Have his knees broken?" It was half a joke.
"If necessary." "I wasn't joking."
An awkward silence fell between us. I took another sip of the whiskey, feeling the heat burn down my throat.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally said.
"Anything."
"Why me?" The question that had been plaguing me since the beginning. "You're a billionaire, handsome, powerful. You could have chosen any woman for this... deal. Why choose the mess I bring?"
Dante was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. He studied the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl.
"Do you remember that night at the fundraiser?" he finally asked. "When we talked for hours?"
"Vaguely. I remember someone helping me when I almost passed out."
"You told me about your dream of opening a bookstore." His eyes met mine. "One with a café, a cozy reading area, and literary events. You said you wanted to create a space where people felt welcome and seen. But your father wanted you to work in the family business, so you shelved the dream."
My heart sank. I'd forgotten that conversation, but now it came back in flashes. The way that green-eyed stranger actually listened, asked questions, didn't judge.
"And does that matter because...?"
"Because"—he leaned forward, elbows on his knees—"in a world full of people doing what's expected of them, you were honest about wanting more. You weren't complaining. You were... dreaming. And there was so much light in you when you talked about it." He paused. "I wanted that light."
I didn't know what to say. The air between us felt charged again, heavy with things unsaid.
"Besides," he added, returning to his lighter tone, "you intrigued me. A woman who spends an elite party talking to old people about gardening? Who carries Band-Aids in her purse "just in case"? Who genuinely cares about strangers?" He smiled. "You're rare, Isabella. And I collect rare things."
"I'm not a work of art to collect." "No. You're better." He finished his whiskey in one gulp. "You're real."
My phone vibrated, breaking the moment. It was a text from an unknown number:
"Enjoy it while it lasts, darling. Every house of cards eventually falls. -M"
Melissa. It had to be.
"Problem?" Dante noticed my expression.
I showed him the message. His eyes darkened dangerously.
"She won't give up." He held out his hand. "Give me the phone."
"Why?"
"Trust me?"
"I shouldn't have. I barely knew him. But something in those green eyes made me hand over the phone.
He typed quickly and handed it back to me. I glanced at the reply he'd sent:
"Melissa. Any future unsolicited contact with my wife will be handled by my legal team. Consider this your only warning. -DM"
"You didn't have to do that."
"You did." He stood, extending his hand to help me up. "You're my responsibility now. And I protect what's mine."
That "mine" again, that should have irritated me, but didn't.
"It's late," he said, checking his watch. "And you must be exhausted. Let me show you your room."
He led me to the door on the opposite side and opened it. The room was... perfect. Soft cream walls, a queen-size bed with sheets like clouds, a huge window overlooking the sunlit gardens. There was even a small bookshelf already filled with books.
"How did you...?"
"I asked your mother what your favorites were." He looked almost embarrassed. "I thought it would make you feel more at home."
I walked to the bookshelf, my fingers tracing the titles. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. One Hundred Years of Solitude. They were all there. First editions, I realized with shock.
"Dante, is that..."
"A lot?" He was standing in the doorway, watching my reaction.
"Perfect." I turned to him, emotion closing my throat. "It's perfect. Thank you."
He smiled—a genuine smile, not the rehearsed mask. "Good night, Isabella. If you need anything, just knock. I won't lock it."
"Good night." But as he turned to leave, I heard myself calling out, "Dante?"
"Yes?"
"That kiss. In the church." I forced the words out. "It was... I mean, it felt..."
"Real?" he finished, his voice hoarse. "Yes. It felt."
And then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with my confused thoughts and a heart beating too fast.
I fell onto the bed, still wearing my wedding dress, and stared at the ceiling. I got married today. To a stranger. For money and convenience.
But that kiss wasn't convenient. It wasn't transactional.
That kiss was devastating. And I had twelve months to figure out what the hell to do with it.
My phone vibrated again. Another message, this time from Dante:
"I forgot rule number eight: good night every night. Even when we fight. Especially when we fight. Sleep well, my wife. -D"
Against all instincts of self-preservation, I smiled.
"Good night, my husband. -I"
And for the first time since that horrible morning in the hotel, I slept without nightmares.