The Bride He Bought

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼

My curls are at war with me again.

Armed with my hair brush I quite aggressively rake the object through my hair. Just lay down, please. Behave. I spray a little more water, add some leave-in, even press my palm over it like that’ll help, but it frizzes back up every single time. I groan. I don't have time for this.

“Why do you hate me?” I mutter, staring at the mirror like it’ll offer answers.

Of course, it doesn’t.

Eventually, I reach for the one thing I know will tame it: my black scarf. I wrap it neatly, smoothing the edges, and knot it at the nape of my neck. It's the last designer item I own, Dior, once upon a time. I used to wear it to brunches in Tribeca and yacht parties I don’t even remember now. Funny how now it’s just a makeshift armor against the world.

I take a final glance at my reflection. My mantra leaves my lips like a habit I can't quit.

"You are safe. You are strong. You are doing your best."

But it sounds like someone else is saying it, someone from three years ago. Someone who didn’t check bank apps before buying clothes. Someone who didn’t read medical bills like death sentences.

I let out a long and slow sigh.

Then I hear it, intense hacking coming for someone's chest.

It shreds through the silence like glass. It's deep and raspy. My stomach drops.

“Dad?” I call out softly, already walking toward the living room.

The apartment is small. Tiny, even. Just two rooms, a kitchen that barely holds a fridge, and a living room that doubles as a hospital ward some days. It’s clean though. I keep it spotless, because it’s the only thing I can still control.

My father is on the couch, wrapped in a thin blanket that’s seen better years. His face is paler than usual, and his hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the glass of water I placed there this morning.

“You didn’t take your meds,” I say, kneeling beside him.

He grunts. That’s as good as a no.

“I’ll remind you again before I leave. You need to see the doctor, Dad. I need to know what’s wrong.”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when he knows I’m right.

I stand and pick up my phone to check the time. I’m almost late for the morning shift at the bookstore. Again. But my fingers hesitate when I pick up my phone, and for a split second, I consider just turning it off. A few hours of no distractions from notifications and social media would be fine.

Still, I turn on the Wi-Fi.

Ping.

First notification: 𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝐼𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝐵𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑇𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝐴𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑. 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝐺𝑙𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑙 𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

My fingers freeze.

Dante! Dante fucking Moretti!!

My chest twists and I feel my entire face scrunching up.

I stare at his picture like it can feel the weight of the hate in my stare. He's in a dark suit. His jawline, perfect. And he's wearing that damn smug expression like he owns the world. Because in a way he does. And he didn't earn it, or work hard to get to where he is now, this man stole it from people like us.

Three years ago, my father called him a “visionary.” He completely trusted him. Then partnered with him, signed papers that were supposed to take Vance Industries international.

Six months later, we were bankrupt.

There were lawsuits and we lost all of them. The debts piled up like bricks. Everything, gone in what still feels like a split second. Our house, our cars, our legacy.

I've seen Dante a few times. First time I'd seen him was at the boardroom, when my father made his proposal. Other times, at galas, and those days, to my uttermost embarrassment now, I was swoon. To be fair, any woman would swoon for a man like that, built to perfection.

The last time I saw him though, was during the final court proceeding when he won the last lawsuit. I had caught his eyes, but I hadn't seen anything other than ice in those deep blue ocean he has for eyes.

I knew then, that this man was soulless.

Now, even though I've told myself I don't care. That I’ve moved on, every few weeks, I find myself reading up on his life. Stalking articles, watching interviews, like...like a masochist.

Two years ago, when that model-actress girlfriend of his, Nicole Bennett, cheated on him in front of the whole damn world, I felt... pure satisfaction. It was petty, I know, but for once, he was humiliated.

That period I was absolutely addicted to my device as I would read article after article and watch video after video, just to get a glimpse of this humiliated man like my mind had told me.

But every damn time, I saw him thrive. He was opening new firms, making even more money. And he definitely didn't look like the man my mind had painted. Instead, I was reminded that Dante Moretti was a soulless thief, and a woman's betrayal was never going to faze him. Why? It's simple. He doesn't have a heart.

Today, this very moment, as the heat of my intense stare holds my now blank screen, I feel my restraints shattering.

How can people like him, filthy robbers, soulless demons, have life so good for them, while hard working people starve.

No!

This is the last straw.

Whatever it takes, Dante Moretti will hear from me. Today.

“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Dad, grabbing my bag. “Don’t forget your meds Daddy.”

He grunts again, eyes half-closed. I don’t wait for more. If I think too long, I’ll back out.

***

The subway ride is a blur. The entire time, my brain keeps telling me to just go to work. There are returns to process. New stock to shelve. The manager already hates me for being late.

But somehow, my feet don’t listen.

By the time I look up, I’m standing in front of Moretti Global. The glass building stretches into the sky like it’s judging me. My fingers twitch against the strap of my tote.

I smooth down my shirt but it wrinkles again.

I look like I don’t belong here. I know it. The passers-by know it. The security guards pretending not to stare definitely know it too.

I walk in anyway.

The floor is marble. The air smells like imported eucalyptus and money.

“Hi,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’d like to see Mr. Moretti.”

The receptionist looks up from her desk. She’s too polished. Not a single flyaway hair. Her eyes scan me, pausing at my shoes, then my scarf.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But he knows who I am.”

That’s a lie. Probably.

Her smile is all condescension. “Mr. Moretti doesn’t take walk-ins.”

“I just need five minutes.”

“Then email his office.”

“I—look, please. Just tell him Alera Vance is here. He’ll know what to do.

“Ma’am.” Her smile drops. “You need to leave. Now.”

I freeze.

From the corner of my eye, I spot a man in a suit slowing down near the elevator. A woman in blue, near the lounge turns to stare. I’m being watched.

I feel it in my chest, that old, ugly tightening.

Then I see the receptionist press something under the desk.

Security.

I step back just as two men in uniform approach.

“This way, ma’am.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say quickly, trying to smile. “I just...please, can you just tell him—”

But they’re already walking me out. Their grips aren’t rough, but it still feels like I’m being shoved.

The moment the revolving doors close behind me, the tears come. I blink hard, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

I should’ve just gone to work.

I wipe under my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. My stomach twists when I think of the time.

"What a waste of time."

I wipe my eyes again, sniffing, avoiding the eyes zoning in on me.

I move forward a little, then back again, a few people curse at me and I whisper an apology, but they are already moving ahead. I scratch the side of my ear. I should probably just go home. There's no way I can make it to the store today. I'll tell her I'm sick.

Just as I'm settling these thoughts in my mind, the revolving door moves.