Chapter 14: The marriage without love

Serena’s POV

“Mrs. Romano.”

The word snaps me fully awake.

I turn my head toward the door, my heart already racing, and see a nurse standing just inside the hospital room with a clipboard held tight against her chest. Her smile is polite, careful, the kind people use when they don’t want questions.

“Your driver is downstairs,” she adds. “He’s been waiting.”

Waiting.

I swallow and push myself upright on the bed, the movement sending a dull ache through my ribs. “Already?” I ask.

The nurse nods. “Yes. Everything is ready.”

Everything.

I glance around the room like I might find some sign that yesterday didn’t happen, that I didn’t sign my name away with a steady hand while pretending my chest wasn’t collapsing inward. The bed. The IV stand. The window overlooking a city that kept moving while my life stopped.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Eight thirty,” she replies. “They’re on a schedule.”

Of course they are.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and brace myself on the mattress until the dizziness fades. When I look up again, the nurse is gesturing toward the chair by the window.

“That was delivered this morning.”

I follow her hand.

The dress is white. Simple. Expensive in a quiet, unmistakable way. It hangs inside a clear garment bag, perfectly pressed, waiting like it belongs here. Like I was always meant to step into it.

There’s no card. No explanation.

Just proof that Dante never intended to give me time to reconsider.

The nurse clears her throat softly. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

She leaves before I can respond, the door closing with a gentle click that sounds final anyway.

I stand slowly and walk toward the dress, my bare feet cold against the tile floor. My hands hesitate before touching the fabric, and when I finally do, it feels heavier than it should.

“This is real,” I murmur to myself.

No one answers.

I change without ceremony. There’s no joy in it, no anticipation. Just a quiet efficiency that mirrors everything about this arrangement. The dress fits perfectly, like it was tailored with my measurements already memorized. When I look at my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

She looks pale, thin and trapped.

“I don’t look married,” I whisper.

I look like property.

The car ride is silent. The driver doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance back, doesn’t acknowledge me beyond opening the door. I sit stiffly in the back seat, hands folded in my lap, staring out the window as buildings blur past.

Yesterday I was in a hospital bed.

Today I’m on my way to marry a man who negotiated my future like a contract.

The courthouse looms ahead, gray and uninviting, and my stomach tightens as the car slows to a stop.

He’s already there.

Dante stands at the bottom of the steps, hands clasped behind his back, dark suit sharp against the stone. He looks up as I step out of the car, his gaze sweeping over me in a single, assessing glance.

“You’re late,” he says calmly.

I blink. “I came as soon as they told me.”

His eyes flick to his watch, then back to my face. “Next time, you won’t be.”

Next time.

He offers his arm.

I hesitate just long enough for him to notice.

“Serena,” he says quietly, not impatient, just firm.

I take his arm.

His grip is steady, unyielding, guiding me up the steps as though this is something we’ve done before. I notice the men stationed around the entrance immediately. They were too alert and well positioned. The Security disguised as coincidence.

Inside, the courtroom is small and cold. The judge stiffens the moment Dante enters, straightening in his seat, his expression turning cautious.

“Good morning,” the judge says.

“Let’s proceed,” Dante replies, already guiding me toward the table. “We don’t have much time.”

The judge nods without argument.

The papers are placed in front of me again, familiar now in a way that makes my chest ache. The pen sits on top, waiting.

I reach for it.

Dante’s hand closes over mine.

I inhale sharply and look up at him.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

I do.

“You chose this,” he continues. “No one forced your hand. You understand what that means.”

My throat tightens. “It means my mother lives.”

“It means you own the decision,” he corrects. “Sign knowing that.”

His hand lifts.

I pick up the pen, my fingers trembling despite my effort to steady them, and sign my name again. Slower this time. More deliberate.

The judge clears his throat and speaks quickly, the words blurring together until one thing stands out above the rest.

“Married.”

Dante takes my hand immediately and pulls me to my feet.

Outside, the noise hits all at once.

Cameras flash. Voices shout. Someone calls Dante’s name. Someone else calls mine.

I freeze.

Dante leans in close, his grip tightening. “Don’t look at them,” he says under his breath. “Move.”

I take one step forward, blinded by the lights, my pulse roaring in my ears.

As we reach the car, Dante opens the door himself, then pauses with his hand still on my wrist, his voice low and sharp. “Don’t let them photograph you," he said into my ear, his breath ghosting over my skin.

"I don't need a photograph to remember who owns you. Now, move!! The cars are waiting, and the city already knows who you belong to."

He pulls me toward the car—and the door swings open.