Chapter 3 Caged Queen

Amara hadn’t left her room in two days.

She refused to eat the food brought by the staff. Refused to speak to Bianca. Refused to even look at the dress Dante sent her—a red silk thing that looked more like a trap than clothing.

Instead, she stayed wrapped in a gray hoodie and jeans, her mind racing like a bird beating its wings against a cage.

The more she tried to make sense of this place, of him, the more confused she became.

Dante wasn’t just dangerous—he was unrelenting. His silence could be as suffocating as his presence. And somehow, not seeing him these last forty-eight hours had made her more anxious, not less.

She hated it.

She hated that she noticed his absence.

She hated that some sick part of her wondered where he was.

But above all—she hated herself for remembering his touch. The way his fingers had brushed her lip. How he’d stared at her like she was something divine and doomed all at once.

Get a grip, Amara. He’s not a man. He’s a monster in a silk suit.

A knock on the door shattered her thoughts.

Not soft. Not polite.

Sharp. Demanding.

Three knocks.

She stood, breath catching.

The door opened before she could answer.

Dante stepped inside.

No guards. No warning.

Just him.

Black shirt. Black pants. Black eyes.

Everything about him screamed control.

Amara crossed her arms tightly. “Did you forget what knocking means?”

“I knocked,” he said coolly. “You didn’t answer. I decided I didn’t care.”

Her jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

Dante’s gaze roamed over her body—not lewdly, but observantly, as if taking note of every breath she took, every inch of resistance she still carried.

“You’ve been hiding.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“How to get out of this place.”

He stepped closer. “If you want to leave, just say the word.”

Her eyes widened.

“That’s a lie.”

He shrugged. “No. But you won’t like the terms.”

She stiffened. “Terms?”

“You leave,” he said slowly, “your father dies. And not quietly. Not quickly.”

Amara’s lips parted in shock.

“That’s not freedom. That’s blackmail.”

“That’s a choice,” Dante corrected. “And I’ve given you more of it than anyone else ever will.”

Her fists balled at her sides. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” His voice softened. “But I’m always honest.”

There was something unsettling about the way he said that. As if in his warped world, honesty was the only virtue that remained.

“Get out,” she whispered.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook.

Black leather. Worn edges.

He tossed it onto the bed.

She glanced at it. “What’s that?”

“Your mother’s.”

Amara blinked. “What?”

“Her journal. I’ve kept it all these years.”

“I—I don’t believe you.”

“Read it.”

He turned, walked to the door, and paused.

“When you’re ready to understand why you’re here—why I can’t let you go—read it.”

And then he left.

---

Amara stared at the notebook for hours.

Her hands hovered over it, afraid to touch it, as if it might catch fire.

But eventually, curiosity won.

She picked it up.

The leather was soft, cracked with age.

She opened the first page.

> March 12th

I saw him again today. Dante Moretti. The man everyone fears. But he looked at me like I was something he’d forgotten he wanted. I should be scared… but I’m not.

Amara’s fingers trembled as she turned the page.

> He sent roses to the bakery. I told him I couldn’t accept them. That I was engaged. He smiled and said, “Roses don’t care who you belong to. They bloom anyway.”

> Mama would kill me if she knew I was writing this. But I think I like him. God help me, I think I do.

Tears welled in Amara’s eyes.

This wasn’t some fantasy.

This was real.

Her mother had been drawn to Dante… not forced. Not hunted.

She had chosen to feel something.

And then she turned to a page near the middle—one written with hurried ink.

> Lorenzo found out. He confronted Dante. There was blood. I told them both to stop. I told them I loved them both. I was stupid. So, so stupid.

> I’m pregnant. And I don’t know whose child it is.

Amara froze.

The journal slipped from her hands.

Pregnant?

Whose child?

Was that even possible?

Could she be...?

“No,” she whispered.

There’s no way.

Her father was the only man she’d known. The only father she’d ever had.

And yet—

Her hand reached for the photo of her mother that she’d stolen from Dante’s desk and hidden in the drawer beside the bed.

She looked into her mother’s eyes.

Eyes that matched her own.

But the shape of her jaw…

The curve of her brows…

Her reflection in the mirror…

Was it possible?

Could Dante Moretti be her real father?

She felt sick.

No.

No. He touched her. He looked at her with—

No. He wouldn’t—

Would he?

---

She ran through the halls like a ghost.

Straight to the library.

She knew he’d be there.

Dante stood by the fireplace, a glass of bourbon in hand.

He turned as she entered, his expression unreadable.

“You read it.”

She held the journal like a weapon.

“Tell me it’s not true.”

He said nothing.

Her voice cracked. “Tell me you’re not my father.”

His brows furrowed. “No.”

She let out a breath.

“I’m not your father,” he said. “But I might’ve been.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means your mother never told anyone the truth. Not even me. But I had the DNA test run years ago—quietly. The results were… inconclusive. But I chose not to pursue it.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin you.”

“You ruined me the moment you dragged me into this!”

“I could have kept the truth. Hidden the journal. Let you believe your life was ordinary. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” she shouted.

“Because you deserve to know what you were born from. Obsession. Betrayal. Lust. Madness.”

Her breathing became erratic.

“You are the product of everything we destroyed,” he whispered.

She stumbled back.

“I need air.”

She fled the room before he could stop her.

---

Outside, the night was cool. The wind tangled her hair as she ran through the rose garden like a woman possessed.

She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care.

She just needed to escape the weight of his voice. His truth.

Then—

A hand grabbed her arm.

She screamed.

“Shh. It’s me.”

Alessandro.

His green eyes glinted in the moonlight.

“I told you,” he whispered. “Everything he touches, burns.”

She yanked her arm away. “What do you want?”

“Justice. Revenge. Maybe a little fun.”

“I’m not a pawn in your war.”

“No. You’re the queen.”

His eyes flicked to the house.

“He’s losing control. You make him weak. And weakness…” He smiled. “...gets people killed.”

“Stay away from me,” she warned.

“I’m just saying,” he said softly, “you might want to start thinking about whose side you’re on.”

She turned and walked away.

But his words followed her like ghosts.

Whose side are you on?

---

Back in her room, she locked the door and collapsed onto the bed.

She stared at the ceiling for hours.

And when dawn finally touched the sky…

She whispered the words she never thought she’d say.

“I’m not safe here.”

Not with Dante.

Not with Alessandro.

Not with the truth.

She had to survive.

No matter what.

And if that meant playing the devil’s game—

Then so be it.