Three Years With My Billionaire Husband

The dining room was designed for intimidation. Crystal chandeliers angled onto dark mahogany walls, and a table long enough to hold twenty glowed like polished blood beneath the candles. My father sat at the head of the table, his glass of Barolo untouched, his silence hefty. I’d grown up in this house, in this family, in the shadow cast by its power, but tonight, the air was like a noose.

“You’ll marry him.” In the silence, another voice, that of my father, rose at last.

“The families will gather at the wedding. The contracts are already drafted.” My stomach turned cold. Bring together the families. To put it politely, sell your daughter as currency. I knelt, hands on linen, nails biting through my palm beneath the table. “No.” His eyes dropped to mine, black and merciless. “This is no negotiation, Isidora.”

He spoke my full name—I hated that. It meant the decision had been etched in stone. “He’s a Vescari,” I responded with a knife-edge glassy voice. “You want to bind me to a man whose family has been trying to bleed us out of my land for years? That’s not unity. That’s surrender.” His jaw flexed.

My uncles rolled up and down in chairs beside us as if they wanted to breathe. No one dared contradict him here, my father. Not just for themselves. Unless they didn’t want to be the example which people wanted them to follow. “Marriage is war by other means,” he said flatly. “You’re twenty-seven, and your life is wasted over a little defiance. The Vescari heir will take you, and through you will discover who their loyalties are.” Take you. My pulse spiked.

And I imagined Matteo Vescari, a smooth and hungry smile with eyes that just didn’t like the way he looked at women as if they were spoils. His gilded cage clung to an enclosure, and he liked putting down the door when he shoved it down on me. These words escaped from my mouth as I tried to hold them back.

“I’d rather die.” The chamber shook as a ripple… forks scraped the plates, then came to rest. My father’s glass shattered on the table when he laid the glass down too hard. His eyes were knives. “Choose your words carefully.” “I have.”

Even though every nerve was screaming, I was the one with a steady voice. “If you get me to do that, you can just bury me first. Because I will not survive as Matteo Vescari’s wife.” And there was a silence that grew smothering and stifling. My father reclined, studying me like a calculus to cut you out without scratching a scar. I needed an out. Fast. And then the idea landed, carelessly and implacably. But better than chains.

“I’m already engaged,” I lied. The words were bold, irrevocable. The sneer crept creeping into my dad’s mouth. “To whom?”

My pulse thundered. I could have picked anyone—an unidentified faceless figure, a casual ghost. My instincts then took me to the one person willing to make that lie into reality. The one man who was reckless enough to stand right by my side who was dangerous enough to keep the Vescari out of my way.

“Dante Romano.” The name fell like a loaded gun. The room erupted. My uncles swore. Someone spat wine at the tablecloth. Dante Romano—the child of our oldest competitors, the boy who had snatched every trophy from me in school, the man who had become a cruel shark in the boardroom and back alleys. Our families had been at each other’s throats for decades.

My father's eyes narrowed. “Do you think I am a fool?” “No.” My chin lifted. “But you know Dante well enough to think he’d do it. And the Vescari you know won’t even dare confront him. Not if he’s tied to me.” The silence shifted, and grew darker.

My dad tapped a finger on the table. Once.Twice. Measuring. “You’d rather box yourself in with Romano,” he said slowly, “than obey me?” “Yes.” I expected fury. He grinned but with that calm but cool grin that he had already figured out a way to turn my opposition against me. “Very well,” he murmured.

“Bring me proof of this… engagement. I want to see his ring on your finger within a week. Otherwise, the Vescari ceremony goes on.” And the food was thrown away; the table, forgotten.

The meal remained idly in place at the table. My father got up, scraping back his chair like thunder, and darted out of the room. My trembling hands sank under the table but I forced them still. I’d bought myself time. That was all. A week. Now I had the impossible part — convincing Dante Romano to be my fiancé.

*********

Romano offices on Fifth Avenue arranged as if building a steel fortress, glass and chrome and cruel efficiency.

I hadn’t dared step foot in this empire in years; I wanted to fight him from the outside. But tonight, the city lights slashing through the black, I crossed the marble lobby almost like I owned it.

My name was wavering in front of the receptionist. She knew exactly who I was. The discord between our families was an open wound in this city. But she pressed the button, and so her voice was hushed as she called me.

Dante waited for the elevator to open above us. God, he hadn’t changed. Tall, broad-shouldered, black suit sharp enough to slice, dark hair slicked back with a precision and threat quality.

His winter-steel eyes fell on me with disdain. “Isidora.” With a deep, lazy, lethal sound. “To what do I owe the misfortune?”

To this, I smiled lightly — and my heart pounds. “I need a fiancé.” His brow arched. “And you thought of me? I’m flattered. Truly.” “Don’t be.”

I stepped closer, my heels matching his height and not flinching from his eyes. “This isn’t about you. For me, it’s not about being auctioned off to Matteo Vescari, as if an animal. You want to hurt the Vescari? This is how. Say yes.”

And studied me, head tilted, mouth sculpted into that infuriating half-smile I hated since our childhoods. “And what am I getting,” he said, low, “for chaining myself to my greatest enemy?”

For it, he was actually telling himself. I looked him straight in the eye and then allowed him to see the steel beneath my desperation.

“Everything you’ve ever wanted. Me in your bed; your name now on my finger and my father choking on it. All without you lifting a gun.” His laugh was low, dangerous. “Careful, Bella. You make it sound almost like you’re begging.”

“Not begging.” That was a barely filtered, whispered sound coming out of my mouth. “Daring.” His eyes took me in with curiosity, hungry at a level that gave me chills.

Finally he pressed in enough he breathed very closely, the sound of his breath close to my ear.

“Fine. I’ll play your little game.” I could not let out a deep breath until he closed his office door behind us, closing the deal behind shadows. With that, I had exchanged one cage for another — and the other smiled through the snap as it closed.