The mansion smells like cold marble and old money.
Isabella arrives two days later with a suitcase she didn't pack herself. The security gates close behind her with a soft mechanical click that sounds very final.
"Your room is ready," Luca says, walking beside her but not touching. "The west wing."
"Separate rooms?" she asks.
"For now."
That small phrase carries more weight than it should.
Inside, the house is enormous. High ceilings. Art on the walls that probably costs more than a year of legal fees. Beautiful and cold at the same time.
But what she notices most are the cameras. Small. Tucked away. Watching every corner.
"You surveil your own wife?" she asks.
"Security," he corrects.
She turns to face him. "Is there a difference?"
His gaze holds hers. "Yes. I don't watch you. I watch for threats."
"And I'm not one?"
A flicker of something crosses his face. It was almost an amusement. "If you were a threat you wouldn't be standing here."
That doesn't comfort her.
They stop outside her bedroom door. He pauses.
"You're free to move anywhere inside the estate. Beyond the gates you'll need an escort."
"So I am caged."
"You are protected."
Their eyes lock. Neither backs down.
"Tell me something honest," she says quietly. "If the rival group didn't exist, would you still have proposed this?"
The question sits between them.
"Yes," he says.
Her pulse stumbles. "Why?"
He steps closer. Not touching. But close enough that she can feel the warmth coming off him.
"Because alliances built under pressure tend to hold."
That isn't what she meant. And he knows it.
He steps back. "We leave for Milan in the morning. Engagement announcement."
Her stomach turns. "Is this public?"
"It has to."
When he walks away she realizes the cameras aren't the only thing watching her. The staff looks away too fast. Voices stop behind closed doors when she passes.
She isn't just a bride. She is a move on a board.
And somewhere inside this house, someone is keeping score.