The untouchable Moretti

Rose sat stiffly before the mirror as the servants powdered her cheeks, lined her eyes, and pinned her hair back in a sleek twist that made her look older and untouchable.

When they slipped the deep emerald dress over her, catching against her pale skin, she was almost startled at the reflection staring back.

She looked ethereal and perfect—the kind of woman who might belong to Dante Moretti. But her mouth was pressed into a line and her eyes looked unhappy. The glass didn’t lie about that part.

“Bellissima,” one of the maids whispered reverently.

Although Rose didn't understand what they said, she didn't ask them. When they finally released her, she walked down the hallway alone... She knew where to be, she had been briefed about the role she had to play earlier on.

The sound of her heels clipped against the marble, each step pulling her deeper into the role they had forced on her. Dante was waiting in the atrium, he wore a tailored black suit.

His gaze flicked over her slowly, assessing. Something unreadable passed over his face before he masked it. “Let’s go,” he said.

She followed, her spine rigid, her chin tilted high. She wasn't going to break. She would find a way. She won't be confined to this gothic fortress forever.

They drove in silence until Dante spoke. “You’ll smile. You’ll speak when you’re asked. You’ll behave like the wife you are. Or your punishment won’t end with two days.”

Rose turned her head toward the window, watching the blur of city lights. “You don’t need me to play your wife,” she said quietly. “You do that well enough for both of us.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply.

When the car rolled to a stop, the street outside was blinding with camera flashes. Reporters shouted, their voices overlapping, their microphones stretched out like weapons. Rose’s breath caught at the sheer force of it.

And then Dante stepped out.

It was like watching a mask slide into place, it was smooth and practiced. His mouth curved into a smile the world had memorized from magazine covers.

By the time he circled the car to open her door, he was no longer the man who had locked her in a bare room and stripped her of necessity for two days.

He was the Dante Moretti who ruled Forbes lists and business columns, the mogul with a reputation as unshakable as steel.

She let him help her out, her hand light on his arm. The flashes exploded around them. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close enough that the scent of his cologne invaded her nostrils.

Every step he took, every angle he turned his head, was choreographed for them, for the cameras. He leaned close, brushing his lips against her hair, murmuring something that looked tender even though she caught only the hollow edge of his breath. He guided her with a hand at the small of her back.

To the world, he was a man in love, a husband doting on his bride. To Rose, he was still her jailer.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, but the press corps was anything but glamorous—elbows jostled for space, cameras clicked and flashed like a storm, voices clamoring for attention.

Rose stood just half a step behind Dante, the heat of the stage lights prickling against her skin. Her gown was a silken cage, and the jewels at her ears were heavy but the smile painted on her face had to hold.

“Mr. Moretti! Mrs. Moretti!” one reporter shouted above the rest. “Congratulations on your wedding. Could you tell us how you first met?”

Dante gave a small smile, practiced and perfect, but he tipped his head slightly toward Rose.

Rose felt her pulse quicken. Every camera lens turned to her. She swallowed once, steadying herself. “We… met most unexpectedly,” she said softly. “It wasn’t planned, but sometimes the unplanned things turn out to be the most important.”

Flashes went off, catching her side profile. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dante watching her closely, as if measuring every word.

Another voice rose. “Mrs. Moretti, how are you finding life at Villa Corona Nera so far?”

Rose’s hands tightened against the folds of her gown, her nails dug into the fabric. Prison, her mind whispered. But her lips curved in a faint smile. “It’s… different,” she said carefully. “The Moretti family has a long history, and I’m learning daily what it means to be part of it.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The cameras loved her…soft voice, delicate poise, the perfect counterbalance to Dante’s hard edges.

Then another question came. “Mr. Moretti, Mrs. Moretti—are there plans for children soon?”

Dante’s hand slid casually onto the small of her back, his smile not faltering. “We’ll share when there’s news,” he said smoothly. “For now, we’re simply enjoying the start of our life together.”

Rose kept her eyes forward, but she could feel the subtle pressure of his hand, reminding her of the role she was meant to play.

“Mrs. Moretti,” another reporter called, “we heard you left law school midway. Do you plan to finish your degree now that you’re married?”

Rose hesitated, breath catching. Her lips parted, but Dante’s eyes cut hers, the side of his mouth tilting in the faintest warning.

Dante leaned into the microphone. “My wife is one of the most determined women I know,” he said. “She said she would rather be with me than complete law school but if she chooses to go back on her word, I’ll support her every step of the way. And if she decides otherwise, she has my full support just the same. What matters is that she has the freedom to choose.”

Applause rose immediately, and the press was delighted at his answer. Rose blinked at him, her heart lurching. He had stolen her chance to speak, turned it into his performance, and the crowd ate it up.

But before she could recover, another voice broke through. “But Mrs. Moretti—your father, Daniel Blake, was known as a drunkard and a gabbler. How did a woman from that background meet Mr. Moretti and, so quickly, marry him?”

Rose’s throat went dry. Her father’s name and reputation… She felt her face heat, but before she could even draw breath, Dante’s smile vanished.

His hand pressed lightly against her back, there was no tenderness now, only control. He stepped forward. “Daniel Blake is my father-in-law,” he said coldly. “And I will not tolerate disrespect toward him—or toward my wife. Our marriage is not speculation. And anyone who confuses curiosity with entitlement should remember there’s a line between the two.”

The silence was immediate. Even the cameras seemed to hesitate before resuming their rapid clicks. The reporter who had asked the question shifted uncomfortably, his head ducked.

Applause swelled again, louder this time. To the world, Dante had just defended his wife and her family with steel resolve. To Rose, it was another mask. Another performance. He didn’t care about her father. He cared about control and image.

Rose forced herself to smile again, though it trembled at the corners. She could not let them see the truth.

And beside her, Dante looked every inch the man they all believed him to be—the devoted husband, the perfect heir, the untouchable Moretti.