A Cage of Silk

Aria

By the time I got home, my legs were trembling so badly I almost missed the last step of the staircase. Mom and Dad were waiting in the living room, faces pale, eyes swollen. The second I walked in, Dad lifted his phone with a shaking hand.

“He… he called back,” he whispered. “You need to hear it.”

Before I could even speak, he tapped play.

Damiano’s voice filled the room, cold, clipped and metallic. “The wedding will be tomorrow. No negotiations. If she isn’t ready, I’ll triple the interest and take your home too.”

The recording ended with a soft click.

I felt my chest crack, loud, a split that echoed all over my ribs.

Ethan burst in from outside, panting. “I tried, Aria. I went to Dad’s old partners, the ones who owe him favors, they all refused. They don’t want to get on Damiano Moretti’s radar.” His voice broke on the last word.

Mom crumpled onto the couch, sobbing into her hands. Dad looked like someone had drained the blood out of him.

And then… all their eyes turned to me. I felt it, the moment the choice stopped being a choice.

I closed my eyes. My breath shook. “I’ll do it,” I whispered. “If this is what saves you… I’ll do it.”

No one cheered. No one hugged me. It felt like signing my own death.

All through the night, I went blank.

The next morning blurred. A black car arrived, slick. We climbed in, Mom trembling beside me, Dad clutching her hand, Ethan saying nothing at all.

The wedding venue wasn’t a hall. It was a marble room inside one of the Moretti private estates, a small, cold, suffocating room. No music. No smiles. No life.

Just the priest. A bouquet I didn’t choose. And a man who refused to even look at me.

We exchanged vows with the mournful silence of a funeral. My parents cried like they were burying me. Maybe they were.

When it was over, I followed Damiano to the car. He didn’t speak. Didn’t glance at me. Didn’t acknowledge that I existed.

His estate was massive, gold trimmed gates, guards everywhere, fountains that sparkled under harsh lights. I couldn’t admire any of it. My hands were ice.

He led me into his master bedroom and shut the door behind us. The click of the lock felt like a verdict.

He finally looked at me, jaw tight, expression empty. “Take off the dress.”

My breath caught. “Damiano… I…”

He didn’t yell. That would have been kinder. “Do not make this difficult. You’re here for one reason. Let’s get it done.”

My veins went cold. My fingers shook so hard I couldn’t undo the zipper. He grew impatient and did it himself, rough, impersonal, like removing packaging.

The rest blurred.

Not gentle.

Not slow.

Not a moment where I felt seen or human.

Just pain, sharp pains, burning, humiliating pain and a weight I couldn’t fight under. Tears slid down my temples silently, and he pretended not to notice. Maybe he truly didn’t care.

When it was over, he stood, buttoned his shirt, and walked out without a word… leaving me naked, shaking, and bleeding onto expensive sheets.

I ran to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast, scrubbing myself until my skin went red, but nothing washed away the filth in my chest, the ache between my legs, the hollow heaviness in my ribs.

I felt ruined.

I fell asleep on the cold tiles instead of the bed.

The next morning. A soft knock came. A maid peeked in. “Breakfast is served, Mrs. Moretti.”

The title hit me like a slap.

I forced myself up, moving slowly, wincing with each step. In between pains I arrived downstairs, and froze at the dining room entrance.

Damiano, a middle aged woman, a young man and a lady sat around the table.

“Miss Isabella, what wine did you ask for?” A maid called out, from the mini wine bar.

Isabella?

“Oh, Isabella Romano,” I utter internally, I recall the name on the contract. Damiano’s lover.

She looked perfect, hair curled, lips glossed, wearing an outfit that screamed expensive Italian couture.

And sitting beside her… was Damiano’s mother. Sharp eyes. Perfect posture. A woman carved from iron and ice. Just like the rumors say.

“Good morning,” I whispered.

Isabella didn’t bother looking at me. Damiano’s mother did, once, slowly, with open disapproval.

And beside her, lounging back in his chair with a bored, narrow stare, was Lucas.

Damiano’s brother.

Cold. Expression unreadable. His gaze bore into me, making my skin crawl, I shifted in my seat barely touching the chair.

“So,” his mother broke the silence, “you’re the bride.” Her tone made it sound like a diagnosis. Isabella smirked.

The maids served food. Not one person asked if I was hungry.

“Where are your manners?” his mother suddenly snapped at me. “A Moretti wife assists the staff. You don’t sit and wait for others to serve you.”

I stiffened. “I…I didn’t know.”

“Learn.” she barked, eyes glaring at me.

The rest of breakfast was a blur. I felt like an accessory they forgot to unbox properly. Isabella chatted with Damiano’s mom, laughing softly, exchanging inside jokes.

I sat there, aching, ignored, erased.

Halfway through, my phone buzzed under the table.

Ivy: Aria we found a way. Come out now. We just need your dad’s industry as collateral. We can pay Damiano. You can leave. Hurry.

My heart raced. Then I typed:

Me: Ivy… it’s too late. I slept with him last night.

She replied instantly:

I don’t care. Leaving is the priority now. He has a lover, Isabella won’t tolerate you. Just get out.

Hope flickered. Faint but real.

I stood from the table, ignoring the burn in my legs, and walked toward the front door.

Two guards blocked me.

“You can’t leave, Mrs. Moretti,” one said flatly. “It’s your honeymoon.”

“I just need air…please.”

“No.”

My breath trembled. “Let me pass. Now.”

The guard didn’t move. “Orders.”

My voice cracked. “I just want to see my family.”

“You leave now, the media will spot you. That’s a risk we can’t allow.”

My heartbeat faltered.

Then footsteps echoed behind me.I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Damiano.

His presence filled the hall like a storm. “What’s happening?”

“She’s trying to leave, sir. ” the guard said.

Damiano’s gaze snapped to me. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

“If you go out,” he said softly, terrifyingly, “and the media make a mess of the situation…”

He stepped closer.

I couldn’t breathe.

“…I’ll make your family suffer.”

My heart stopped. My entire body went cold.

The guards closed the door behind me.

And I realized, I wasn’t a wife.

I was property.

And I had just become a prisoner.