All Chapters of The Bride He Bought : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 The moment I hear the click of the bathroom door opening, my heart leaps into my throat. The voices spill in, all sharp and laughing, the clatter of heels echo off the marble floors as they walk in and I freeze. I know that laugh. Well not the person the laugh belongs, just that I'm familiar with the type. I grip the edges of the stall, and breathe in hard trying to be as discreet as possible. Panic slowly slithers it's way up my spine, leaving me feeling so cold. Without thinking, I take off my heels and hold them in my left hand. Then I gather up the long train of my dress and step onto the toilet seat, I squat on it, balancing myself. My eyes shoot for the door and I see it's not locked. Quickly, as quietly as I can, I balance myself holding the toilet and then I stretch my hands to lock the door. "You saw Dante Moretti's new arm candy, didn't you?" One of them says, with a high-pitched laugh that makes my stomach churn. They are talking about me. I shut

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 Dante cocks his head to the side, one brow lifting slowly, in a way that tells me he's amused. “No?” I falter. “N…no. I’m not going with you. You… you can’t just come here and tell me to come to Milan with you. No. I have a life.” He's calm when he nods. "I know you have a life. I'm not disputing that. But we have a contract and you must fulfill your end of our deal Miss Vance." I'm already shaking my head before he's done speaking. "No." I repeat, growing bolder now. "We aren't married yet. I can't just do whatever you want, at least until we are married. That's what the contract says." He stares at me for a beat longer than necessary. Then rakes a hand through his hair with a slow, measured exhale. He curses in Italian, chuckling. Then, he starts walking toward me. I step back. Big mistake. His legs are longer. He closes the distance in two strides and grabs my arm. His hold isn't gentle. “Ow...” But I barely get the word out. It’s not the pain that

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 Once the plane is in the air and the seatbelt lights blink off, I finally let out the breath I'd been holding since I got here. Gently, I lean close to the window, pressing my forehead against it. The view is great from here. I get a sense of peace as I watch the clouds blur past like cotton being pulled thin. I don’t want to think, or look at him. But his presence is hard to ignore. The weight of his presence shifts as my ears catch him standing up. Please don't come here. Please don't come here. I close my eyes holding my breath. But against my wishes, he slides into the seat right beside me. I don’t look or flinch. I remain focus on the clouds, even though I'm painfully aware that he's close to me. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll disappear. Such wishful thinking, because not only does he not disappear, he starts speaking as well. “We met years ago,” Dante begins, like this is a business meeting and he’s listing agenda points. “When I partnered with you

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 I'm standing in front of the mirror, turning a little to the side to admire the blue, flowy shirt dress that somehow fits like it was made for me. The fabric hugs all the right places, and I still can't get over how Dante managed to get my size so perfectly, one again. Not that I’ll ever ask. I tug at the hem and smooth it out before reaching for my sandals. As I buckle them, I think about his mother. She’s nothing like I expected. She's so warm and easygoing. Her personality instantly calmed my nerves even taking away the guilt of lying to her because she was so kind. She's a breath of fresh air compared to her son. I like her already. As I'm actively buckling my sandals, my ears prick at the sound of voices down below. Laughter bursts at intervals and I can tell there are more people downstairs. My stomach twists with dread. His family. Shit. Do I wait for Dante? What if he doesn’t come back for me? He didn’t exactly promise. And it's not like I can rely on so

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 I’m standing by the stove, slicing tomatoes while Dante's mother stirs something in the pot. The scent of garlic and fresh basil fills the kitchen, and honestly, I’m not doing a terrible job. She even said so herself earlier, well, I feel she exaggerated a bit with all that cooing about me making an excellent cook. But then, I should probably believe her and feel proud of myself because she Italian. “Add a pinch more salt,” she says, her voice warm but stern, like a schoolteacher. I do exactly that, careful not to overdo it. She nods, then reaches for a jar on the top shelf. I move to help her, but she waves me off. “I’ve got it. Finish up with the tomatoes." Her fingers brush the lid, and then she pauses. Her hand trembles. I watch her blink once. Twice. Then she sways. “Mrs Elena?” I drop the spoon and move toward her. She doesn’t answer. She gasps, just a short breath, and collapses. The jar crashes. I scream, kneeling beside her. My heart racing in top s