CHAPTER 03

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

I finished my shower, dried myself, and tied the robe around my body. I sat on the bed, trying to pretend that night didn’t exist. That it wasn’t about to happen.

I wanted to disappear.

The soft knock on the door made me hold my breath.

“Come in,” I said, even though I knew my permission meant absolutely nothing in that house.

The housekeeper entered carrying a large black box wrapped with a ribbon of the same color. She walked with her head lowered, avoiding my eyes. She placed the box on the bed with excessive care, as if it held something fragile.

“It just arrived,” she said, adjusting her apron. “A gift.”

My stomach twisted.

“A gift from whom?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She hesitated for a second.

“From your future husband.”

The word husband hit me like a blunt punch to the stomach.

Without waiting for permission, she opened the box.

Inside was a dress and a pair of high-heeled sandals.

Black.

Not an elegant black. Not discreet. It was heavy, almost suffocating. The fabric shimmered in a vulgar way, chosen to draw attention—not to respect the woman wearing it. The neckline was too deliberate. The back is too exposed.

It was a dress made to be looked at.

Evaluated.

I hated it.

“He asked for you to wear it tonight,” the housekeeper continued, her voice neutral. “He said he wanted to see you in something… worthy.”

Worthy of what?

His money?

His power?

His age?

My chest tightened.

“I don’t want to wear this,” I said softly, barely a whisper.

She sighed and, for the first time, looked at me. There was no cruelty in her eyes. Only resignation—the kind that comes after many years living in that house.

“I know, girl,” she said quietly. “But you know you don’t have a choice.”

I knew.

I had always known.

“I know…” I murmured. “Thank you for bringing it.”

She nodded and left quickly, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone once more.

I stared at the dress.

I hated the dress.

Furthermore, I hated that night.

I hated what they were doing to me.

I didn’t want to get married. Likewise, I didn’t want a man I didn’t even know. I didn’t know his name, his age—nothing. And the worst part was knowing that I had no voice in that house. Refusal meant nothing.

It was my fate.

I stood slowly, my heart tight, and clenched the fabric between my fingers. It was expensive. Very expensive. Every inch of it screamed that I had a price.

I felt disgust.

With him.

With the dress.

With myself.

But above all, I felt anger.

Anger for hating everything about it and still knowing that if I didn't wear that piece of fabric, things would be worse.

I let the robe fall onto the bed and took a deep breath before putting on the dress.

The hatred only increased.

It wasn't a physical burden. It turned me into something I wasn't. Likewise, it turned me into a version I didn't recognize in the mirror.

I put on my black high heels and walked to the dressing table. My eyes were watering, but I couldn't cry. Not that night.

I tied my hair back in a ponytail. I applied minimal makeup—not to please, but to avoid criticism. Any flaw would be used against me.

When I was done, I stared at my reflection.

I didn't smile.

I didn't cry.

Besides, I hated myself.

(…)

The clock read 8:00 p.m.

The housekeeper returned to inform me that dinner would begin promptly. She made a point of reminding me that my father hated delays—especially that night.

I went down the stairs, each step feeling like a walk toward my own sentence.

In the dining room, I saw my father first. He was standing, posture straight, expression satisfied. He was speaking with a man whose back was turned to me.

When I stepped onto the last stair, my father’s eyes lifted.

“Helena,” he called. “Come here.”

I took a deep breath and obeyed.

The man turned around.

And I saw him.

Dom Vittorio.

Old. Very old. A man who had aged accumulating power, not humanity. Gray hair slicked back, a face carved with deep wrinkles, and thin lips curved into a slow smile as his eyes traveled over me without shame.

“So this is Helena,” he said. “More beautiful than I expected.”

My stomach churned.

“Helena, this is Dom Vittorio De Lucca,” my father announced.

Dom.

The title carried fear, forced respect, and silence. No one said “no” to him.

He extended his hand. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. His hand was cold. His grip is too firm. He held it longer than necessary before letting go.

“The dress is perfect,” he commented. “I chose it myself. I like knowing what I put on what belongs to me.”

My father smiled.

I swallowed the nausea.

“Shall we sit?” my father suggested, and we moved to the dining table.

We sat down.

My mother was already there.

Silent. Head lowered—rigid posture. Hands clasped tightly in her lap, fingers pressed together with restrained tension. She wore a light-colored dress, overly modest, as if trying to disappear inside it.

My mother had always been like that.

Present only in the body.

She lifted her eyes for a second when she saw me. She didn’t smile. Didn’t show surprise. She only looked… and lowered her head again.

I sat.

Dom Vittorio sat across from me.

“How old are you, Helena?” he asked. I knew he already knew the answer.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen…” he repeated, satisfied. “An excellent age.”

My entire body went on alert.

“And you?” I asked, looking directly into his eyes, unable to stop myself.

Silence fell heavily over the table.

I felt my father’s gaze burn into me.

I had made two mistakes.

First, women don’t ask questions.

Second, I should never look the Dom in the eyes.

Dom Vittorio laughed.

“Sixty,” he answered. “Sixty years old and an entire empire in my hands.”

Sixty.

I looked at my mother, searching for any reaction.

There was none. She didn’t blink. Didn’t lift her head. She acted as if there were nothing strange about her eighteen-year-old daughter marrying a sixty-year-old man.

“A strong union,” my father said. “He has experience. You’ll have stability.”

Stability.

All I wanted was my freedom.

Unable to hide my discomfort with this marriage, I began to eat, hoping to avoid any questions or conversation.

During dinner, Dom Vittorio talked about business, territories, and alliances. People were spoken of as property.

“I like young women,” he said at one point, staring at me for far too long. “They’re more… moldable.”

My mother continued eating in silence. Controlled movements. Utensils without noise. No expression.

When he placed his hand over mine across the table, I felt the urge to pull away.

But I did nothing.

“Soon,” he said, leaning closer, “you’ll get used to me.”