2

Alessia

I stood still as my mother tightened the last pearl button on the back of my dress.

“Stop slouching,” she murmured. “You’ll make the dress look crooked.

The gown she'd chosen was champagne silk, fitted through the bodice and slit high at the thigh. I'd never worn anything so revealing. It made me feel older. And not in a way I liked.

“It's too tight.” I said under my breath.

Mother ignored me. She stepped back to inspect me, and I caught the look in her eyes through the mirror as she studied my reflection, like she was assessing a painting she didn’t quite understand.

She reached for the brush next, frowning and tugging it through my curls with more force than necessary.

“Your hair…” she muttered, more to herself than me. “That shade has always been a problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my hair,” I said quietly, though I didn’t really believe it.

Auburn curls spilled down my back in loose, unruly waves, the color somewhere between cinnamon and flame depending on the light. It was the one thing about me that drew attention, the one thing I couldn't mute or hide. The nuns at school had called it distracting. My father’s men called it dangerous.

Mother called it unfortunate.

“It makes you stand out,” she said with a sigh. “And not in the way we want.”

“Sorry for the genetic inconvenience.”

Her eyes flicked to mine. “Don’t start with that tone, Alessia. Tonight is not the night.” She smoothed a strand behind my ear. “Atleast, it makes you memorable. Rafael Moretti said you look like a Botticelli angel. That’s something.”

I looked nothing like an angel. My skin was too pale, and my hazel eyes always gave me away. I was the kind of girl people looked at twice, not because I was beautiful, but because they couldn’t decide if I was.

“I doubt Nico Moretti is interested in angels.”

She went still at the mention of his name. “You will not speak about him that way.”

“I haven’t even met him.”

“You will.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And when you do, you will smile, and nod, and speak only when spoken to. You’ll let your father do the talking. You’ll act like a lady and not the half-feral girl you’ve insisted on being.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “So this is it then? This is what becomes of my life?”

She handed me a tube of lip gloss and nodded at the mirror. “Fix your mouth.”

I applied it with shaky fingers.

“Wait here until you’re called,” she said, snapping her compact shut. “Do not fidget. Do not cross your legs. And for heaven’s sake, keep your mouth shut.”

I said nothing.

When she left, I lasted five minutes before the stillness became too much. My hands were clammy. My pulse drummed in my throat. I could feel the blood thudding beneath my skin, begging me to run. But there was nowhere to run.

Instead, I walked.

Quietly, and barefoot. Down the curved hallway, past the gallery of dead Romanos whose cold eyes watched me from gilded frames. I should’ve gone to the bathroom or the kitchen. But my body moved on instinct, drawn to the one place I knew I shouldn't go, through the heavy wooden door near the back staircase, and down the steps into the wine cellar.

It was Father’s sanctuary—off-limits to everyone. But I knew the combination to the lock. I had known since I was thirteen and saw him punch it in without realizing I was watching.

The door creaked open.

Cool air kissed my bare shoulders as I stepped inside. The cellar was dim and chilled, lined with rows of expensive bottles and crates stamped in Italian.

I let my back hit the stone wall and closed my eyes.

You can do this, Alessia. Just smile. Just pretend this is normal. Pretend you’re ready. Pretend—

A soft moan stopped me mid-thought. I went completely still. The sound came again, followed by a gasp so shameless I felt it like a jolt between my ribs.

It was coming from the far end of the cellar, behind the second row of barrels. I crept forward, unthinking, curious in the way girls are curious when they’re about to be forced into a marriage and know nothing about men beyond stories and warnings.

The first thing I saw was a hand pressed against the barrel.

Then a woman with her red dress pushed up around her waist. Her head was thrown back, one leg locked high around the hip of a man between her thighs.

His black dress shirt was halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms wrapped in dark ink. Veins strained beneath the skin, pulsing as his hands held the woman in place like she was something he owned.

His muscles flexed with every thrust, hips snapping forward like his entire purpose in life was buried inside her. One hand gripped her ass, lifting her higher. The other twisted in her hair and yanked her head back so he could taste her mouth.

I'd read about sex in books girls smuggled into the dorms. I thought I knew what to expect, but this was something else entirely. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet.

It was carnal. Rough. Animalistic.

I should’ve backed away and erased the image from my mind forever.

Yet, I couldn’t stop watching.

The woman moaned his name. “Nico—oh God—Nico.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Nico? My soon to be husband?

I didn’t realize I’d made a sound until his head snapped toward me. Our eyes locked and for a split second, the world stopped.

He held my gaze as his body slammed forward again, making the woman cry out.

I pressed my thighs together without meaning to, and his lips curved into something close to a smirk. Shame licked at my skin but so did heat, a kind I'd never felt before. His gaze dropped slowly, to my parted lips, then lower, to the swell of my breasts peeking out from my dress.

His pupils flared. Something hungry sparked behind his eyes like a wolf catching the scent of something new.

He leaned into the woman's ear, and whispered something that made her shudder violently around him. But he never broke eye contact. He wanted me to keep watching.

A barrel scraped behind me as I stepped back.

The sound jolted the woman. She gasped, scrambling to fix her dress.

I bolted. My heart was trying to escape my chest as I tore through the cellar door. I didn’t stop until I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me.

My reflection in the mirror looked back at me like a stranger— hair wild, skin pale, lips trembling.

That was him.

That was the man I was supposed to marry.

And I had no idea what terrified me more. The raw, dangerous way he touched that woman.

Or the way my body had reacted to it.