Chapter 04

I thought it was over.

The ceremony — or whatever that was — ended without applause, without music, without words.

But before I could turn toward the door, someone new entered the chapel. A woman, tall, thin, dressed in black with a massive camera slung over her shoulder.

She didn’t greet me. Didn’t greet him either.

Just gave a short nod and said, “We’ll begin in the next room. Lighting’s better.”

No one asked me.

No one explained.

Of course not.

Because this wasn’t for us. It was for them. The press, the partners, the enemies — all the invisible eyes that would see the photographs and believe the lie: that Elena Russo had become Elena Moretti willingly.

That I was someone he wanted to keep.

Dante didn’t look at me as we were guided to the photo room, a side chamber lined in warm wood and artificial gold-leaf trim. The photographer pointed us wordlessly into position — a classic wedding frame: bride in front, groom behind, hand around the waist.

I stood stiffly. His hand came to rest at my side.

Hard.

Heavy.

Unmoving.

Not affectionate. Not supportive. Just possessive — like a restraint. Like he was making sure I didn’t wander off.

The first flash went off. Then another.

He still didn’t speak.

Another photo. Another pose. She made me turn my head slightly, told Dante to tilt his chin. He didn’t respond, but he did it. For her.

I wondered how much she was being paid not to speak unless spoken to.

Then she said, “Now a closer one. Touch her a little more intimately, please. Just a suggestion of closeness.”

I didn’t move.

But Dante did.

His fingers slid down — slowly — from my waist to the curve of my hip. Just enough to make my breath stick in my throat. Just enough that my heart kicked once, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to run or beg.

I felt his thumb press lightly into my side. A single point of pressure.

Then his voice — quiet, too low for the photographer to hear.

“Don’t flinch,” he said.

Like it was a rule.

Or a warning.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

But I hated how warm my skin felt beneath his touch. How my body betrayed me by noticing the heat of his hand, the firmness of it, the fact that even restrained, he radiated force.

Like a leash you didn’t see until you tried to pull away.

Flash.

The camera clicked again.

His hand stayed where it was.

----

He didn’t say goodbye.

Not to the witnesses. Not to the priest.

Certainly not to me.

Dante left the room the same way he entered it — without sound, without expression, without giving me anything at all.

Except the weight of what he’d just claimed.

I wasn’t dismissed so much as absorbed — passed from the moment like I didn’t need to be spoken to now that I’d been signed over.

The guard appeared at my side again. I didn’t know if it was the same one from the elevator or a different version cut from the same silence. He motioned with two fingers and said nothing as he walked ahead of me, out of the chapel, through a long corridor of gold-trimmed halls, and up a private staircase into a part of the estate I hadn’t seen before.

The bedroom door was already open.

He didn’t follow me in.

The suite was beautiful. Cold. Designed like a luxury hotel that didn’t expect anyone to live in it. Large bed, high ceilings, silver curtains that muted the setting sun. On the nightstand, a crystal water carafe. A phone with no buttons. A single tulip in a glass vase.

And on the bed — a white box.

Small. Flat. Heavy-looking.

My stomach sank the second I saw it.

I didn’t want to touch it.

I touched it anyway.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, the dress riding high on my thigh, and slowly removed the lid.

Inside: velvet. Pale gray.

And nestled in the center, like a noose designed by Tiffany — a necklace.

Thin. Diamond-laced. A collar, really.

Not long enough to dangle.

Not delicate enough to forget.

There was a card tucked beneath it. Thick white cardstock, handwritten in dark ink.

You will wear this every night. Especially when I don’t come to you.

No name. No greeting. No signature.

Just a command.

My fingers curled into the bedsheet beside me.

It wasn’t a gift.

It was a reminder.

That even in silence, even in absence — I was still his.

I didn’t undress.

I couldn’t.

The silk stuck to my skin like a second layer — not from heat, but from the weight of everything that had happened. The stares. The silence. The signature. The word.

Mine.

That one syllable had crawled under my skin like it belonged there. Like it didn’t need to be proven. Just spoken.

The diamond collar lay beside me on the bed like it was breathing.

I stared at it. Long and hard.

Then picked it up.

It was light, deceptively so — but I knew better. It wasn’t jewelry. It was a lock.

I held it to my throat and fastened the clasp with unsteady fingers.

It fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

He’d known my measurements before I stepped into the room. He’d chosen the dress. The suite. The necklace.

He was building something. And I was the centerpiece.

I lay back on the mattress, the hem of the dress still riding high on my thighs, the necklace cold against my collarbone. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and something sharper. Clean linen, untouched.

He hadn’t come to me.

He wouldn’t. Not tonight.

That was part of the game — wasn’t it?

Touch without touching. Control without presence.

I turned my head toward the mirror across the room. It reflected the bed in perfect symmetry. The white dress. The necklace. My bare legs. My bare throat.

I didn’t look like someone married.

I looked like something dressed for auction.

For a long time, I didn’t move.

And I didn’t sleep.