Episode 3 — The Price of Being His

Sleep never came.

No matter how tightly Isabella shut her eyes, the image of that phone screen haunted her.

She is next.

The words carved themselves into her mind like a threat carved into stone.

She lay stiffly in Dominic’s massive bed, staring at the ceiling while the mansion breathed quietly around her. Security patrolled the halls. Guards stood outside the door. Cameras watched every corner.

Still, she felt exposed.

Unprotected.

Beside her, Dominic lay awake.

She could feel his presence like heat through the dark. Silent. Unmoving. Alert.

Neither of them spoke.

There was an unspoken understanding between them, this was no longer a game. No longer a contract. Danger had crossed the threshold.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Dominic said eventually, his voice low.

She laughed softly, bitterly. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Silence again.

“They won’t touch you,” he said. “Not while you’re mine.”

The word sent a shiver through her.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. “Ghosts.”

She turned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give.”

She closed her eyes, exhausted. Somewhere between fear and adrenaline, sleep finally dragged her under.

Morning arrived too quickly.

Isabella woke to a team of stylists, designers, and makeup artists surrounding the bed.

“What’s happening?” she asked groggily.

“Charity gala,” a woman chirped. “We must make you unforgettable.”

She barely had time to process before hands were brushing her hair, painting her face, fitting her into a gown that looked like liquid midnight. The dress hugged her curves, flowing elegantly to the floor, delicate diamonds shimmering along the neckline.

When they finished, Isabella barely recognized herself.

She looked like a billionaire’s wife.

She looked like Dominic’s possession.

A knock came at the door.

The room fell silent.

Dominic stepped in.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, hunger, satisfaction, control.

“You’ll do,” he said.

Her chest tightened.

“That’s all?”

His gaze darkened as he approached.

“Do not mistake restraint for indifference,” he murmured. “Tonight is about perception. Not desire.”

He offered his arm.

She hesitated, then took it.

The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her body.

The gala was hosted in a historic palace overlooking the sea. Crystal chandeliers, silk gowns, champagne towers, and the most powerful people in the city gathered beneath one glittering roof.

The moment Dominic and Isabella stepped inside, attention snapped toward them.

Whispers rippled.

Cameras flashed.

Eyes devoured.

“This is overwhelming,” Isabella murmured.

Dominic’s hand settled at her lower back, firm and possessive.

“Stay close,” he said. “Smile.”

They moved through the crowd like royalty.

Executives bowed. Politicians greeted him warmly. Women stared openly. Men watched cautiously.

But no one dared touch her.

Every time someone leaned too close, Dominic’s grip tightened, his presence radiating warning.

She felt it.

So did everyone else.

“Blackwood,” a smooth voice called.

Dominic stiffened.

A man stepped forward, tall, charming, impeccably dressed, with eyes that held amusement and danger in equal measure.

“Victor Hale,” Dominic said coolly.

Isabella felt the shift instantly.

Tension crackled.

“Congratulations on the marriage,” Victor said, his gaze sliding to Isabella. “A beautiful choice.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “Stay away from my wife.”

Victor chuckled. “So protective. That’s new.”

His eyes lingered on Isabella.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Kings lose their empires over fragile queens.”

Dominic stepped forward, placing himself between them.

“Touch her with your eyes again,” he said quietly, “and I will remove them.”

Victor only smiled.

The moment stretched dangerously.

Then Victor raised his hands. “Relax. Tonight is for celebration.”

He leaned closer to Isabella, lowering his voice.

“Enjoy your crown,” he whispered. “It shatters quickly.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

Isabella’s pulse raced.

“Who is he?” she asked.

Dominic’s voice was dark. “The devil.”

Later that night, after endless conversations and forced smiles, Isabella’s feet ached, her head throbbed, and exhaustion clawed at her bones.

Dominic guided her onto the balcony overlooking the moonlit sea.

Cool air brushed her skin.

She exhaled shakily.

“I’m not built for this world,” she whispered.

He studied her face.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re too real.”

Her gaze snapped to his.

“Then why bring me into it?”

He stepped closer.

“Because,” he said softly, “I don’t trust anyone who isn’t.”

Her heart stumbled, before she could respond, a sharp sting pierced her neck.

She gasped.

Pain exploded through her veins.

The world tilted violently.

“Dominic,” she whispered.

His eyes widened.

He caught her as her knees buckled.

“Sniper!” someone shouted.

Chaos erupted.

Gunfire cracked through the air.

People screamed.

Dominic lifted her into his arms, sprinting toward the exit as guards swarmed around them.

Her vision blurred.

Her limbs went numb.

“Stay with me,” he growled. “Do not close your eyes.”

She struggled to breathe.

“Dominic,” she whispered weakly. “It hurts.”

“I know,” he said, voice strained. “I’ve got you.”

Blood stained her dress.

Sirens wailed.

As darkness pulled her under, she heard him shout:

“Find him. Kill him.”

Then... nothing.