Elara's POV
I never made it to Café Noir.
Marcus was waiting outside the press conference building with the car. "Mr. Moretti insists you go straight to the penthouse," he said. No room for argument.
I tried sneaking out of the hotel at 9:45 PM. Marcus was in the lobby.
Now it's been a week, and whoever sent those texts has gone silent. No more messages. No more warnings. Just questions burning holes in my brain.
It wasn't suicide.
I shove the last of my clothes into a suitcase, trying not to think about it. Trying not to wonder what truth is dangerous enough to get people killed.
"Miss Sinclair?" A woman in a black suit stands in my hotel doorway. "I'm here to transport your belongings to Mr. Moretti's residence."
Not asking. Telling.
"I can manage my own—"
"Mr. Moretti insists." She gestures to three men behind her. "We'll have everything moved within the hour."
They swarm my room like ants, packing my entire life into boxes. What's left of it anyway. After the scandal, after the FBI seized our assets, I don't own much. A few clothes. Some books. My laptop—which I hide in my purse before they can touch it.
I watch them work, feeling like I'm watching my funeral.
"The car is waiting downstairs," the woman says. "Mr. Moretti expects you by eight."
It's 7:30. Of course Dante is timing this down to the minute.
The drive to his building feels too short. Marcus drives in silence while I stare out the window at normal people living normal lives. A couple holding hands. A mom with her kid. A man walking his dog.
All of them free.
We pull up to a tower of glass and steel that looks like it's trying to stab the sky. The doorman opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
"Welcome, Mrs. Moretti," he says with a practiced smile.
I'm not Mrs. Moretti yet. Not for two more days. But apparently everyone's already pretending.
The elevator is all mirrors. I avoid looking at myself. I don't want to see what I've become.
Marcus swipes a key card. The elevator doesn't stop at any other floors. It shoots straight to the top—the penthouse. Dante's kingdom.
When the doors open, my breath catches.
The space is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing all of Manhattan like Dante owns it. Everything is white, black, or gray. Cold. Perfect. Empty.
Like a museum. Or a prison.
"Elara." Dante's voice makes me jump. He emerges from somewhere deeper in the penthouse, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine. "You're late."
I check my phone. 8:02. "By two minutes."
"Two minutes is still late." He nods to Marcus. "Her things?"
"Being brought up now, sir."
"Good. You're dismissed."
Marcus hesitates, glancing at me. For a second, I think he might say something. Offer some kind of comfort. But then he nods and disappears into the elevator.
I'm alone with Dante.
"Come," he says, like I'm a dog. "I'll show you where you'll be staying."
Not living. Staying. Like I'm a guest who's overstayed her welcome.
I follow him through rooms that all look the same—expensive, cold, untouched. We pass a kitchen bigger than my old apartment. A living room with furniture that looks like no one's ever sat on it. A dining table that could seat twenty.
"This is the second floor," Dante says. "Kitchen, living areas, my office. You're allowed here, but don't touch anything in my office. Ever."
"What happens if I do?"
He stops walking and turns to face me. "Then you'll learn very quickly that I don't make empty threats."
A chill runs down my spine.
He continues down a hallway. "The third floor is completely off-limits. You don't go up there. You don't ask about it. You pretend it doesn't exist."
"What's on the third floor?"
"Did I stutter?" His voice could freeze fire. "Off. Limits."
We reach a door at the end of the hall. Dante opens it and steps aside.
"Your room."
I walk in and my stomach sinks. It's beautiful—huge bed, private bathroom, windows overlooking the city. But it's also clearly a guest room. Generic. Impersonal. Nothing like a room someone actually lives in.
"Not our room," I say quietly. "Mine."
"I told you already. This marriage is business. I don't share my bed with business partners." He leans against the doorframe. "Your bathroom is stocked with everything you'll need. The closet has been prepared for your clothes. If you need anything else, tell the staff."
"Staff?"
"Cook, housekeeper, driver. They come during the day. We're alone at night."
The thought of being alone with him every night makes my skin crawl.
"More rules," Dante says, counting on his fingers. "You don't leave the penthouse without my permission. You don't invite anyone here without clearing it with me first. You don't use the gym on the third floor because the third floor doesn't exist to you. You don't go through my things. You don't ask questions about my business. And most importantly—you don't embarrass me. Ever."
"Anything else, master?" The word tastes like acid.
His eyes flash dangerously. "Watch your tone. I'm being generous letting you have your own space. I could just as easily put you in the servant's quarters."
"There are servant's quarters?"
"On the third floor. Which you'll never see." He pushes off the doorframe. "Dinner is at seven every night. We eat together. It's good practice for when we have to attend events. We need to look like a real couple."
"We're not a real couple."
"No. But the world thinks we are. And that's what matters." He starts to leave, then pauses. "Oh, and Elara? I've had your phone monitored. Every call, every text, every website you visit—I see it all. So if you're thinking about contacting anyone to help you escape, don't bother."
My blood runs cold. "You're spying on me?"
"I'm protecting my investment. There's a difference." He looks at me with those empty eyes. "You belong to me now. The sooner you accept that, the easier these two years will be."
He walks away, leaving me standing in my beautiful prison.
I sink onto the bed, my hands shaking. He's monitoring my phone. Which means he saw those mysterious texts. He knows someone tried to contact me.
But he hasn't said anything about them. Why?
Unless he doesn't know who sent them. Unless whoever warned me knows how to hide from Dante's surveillance.
I pull out my laptop—the one thing his team didn't pack for me. The one thing that might still be private. I power it up, my heart racing.
A new email is waiting. From an encrypted address.
Subject: THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR FATHER
I click it open with trembling fingers.
Elara,
I'm sorry I couldn't meet you last week. Dante's people were watching too closely. But I need you to know the truth before you marry him.
Your father didn't embezzle that money. He was framed—by the same people who killed Dante's father and made it look like suicide. They're using both of you, setting you against each other so you don't discover what really happened fourteen years ago.
Dante thinks your father destroyed his family. He's wrong. But he won't believe you if you tell him. He'll think you're lying to save your father.
You need proof. Real proof. And there's only one place to find it—
Dante's third floor. The place he forbids you to go.
That's where he keeps his father's files. Everything from the original scandal. If you can access them, you'll find evidence that proves both your fathers were victims of the same conspiracy.
But be careful. Dante has security cameras everywhere. Except one place—his bedroom. The door to the third floor is inside his closet. He thinks no one would dare go in there.
You have two days before the wedding. After that, it'll be too late. They'll make sure your father never gets out of prison, and you'll be trapped in a marriage built on lies.
Get to that third floor. Find the truth. Save both your families.
Trust yourself, Elara. You're stronger than they think.
—A Friend
I read it three times, my heart pounding harder each time.
The third floor. Inside Dante's bedroom. Inside his closet.
The one place I'm absolutely forbidden to go.
I hear footsteps in the hallway. Dante's voice calling: "Dinner's ready. Don't make me wait."
I close the laptop quickly and hide it under my mattress.
When I walk out, Dante is standing at the end of the hall, watching me with those cold, calculating eyes.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
"Perfect," I lie.
He studies me for a long moment, like he can see right through me. Then he smiles—sharp and dangerous.
"Welcome home, wife," he says softly. "Try not to disappoint me."
I follow him to dinner, my mind racing.
Two days until the wedding.
Two days to break into Dante's bedroom, access the forbidden third floor, and find proof that everything he believes is a lie.
Two days to discover the truth before I'm bound to him forever.
As I sit across from Dante at his cold, perfect dinner table, I make a decision.
Tomorrow night, when he's asleep, I'm going to that third floor.
Even if it destroys everything.
Even if it destroys me.