Four
Elena sat on the edge of the bed in the master suite, staring at the door that had just clicked shut behind him.
Dante Virello.
Her husband.
The man who had hijacked her life in front of half the city with the most arrogant proposal ever spoken and somehow made it legal in a matter of days.
The silence left in his wake wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating.
Everything about this place was too much. Too large. Too perfect. The high ceilings with their shadow-drenched moldings, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, the marble floors that clicked under her hesitant steps. Even the air felt colder here, like it refused to wrap around her the way it did at home.
No her old home.
That wasn’t hers anymore.
Now she belonged to this house. To this man.
Elena rose to her feet, arms folded tightly across her chest as she paced the length of the room. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t said a word after their wedding night standoff. He’d simply turned and walked out after that single, soul-shaking kiss.
But he left her with a warning.
“If you want kindness, ask someone else. If you want truth stand very still.”
It echoed in her mind like thunder in a cathedral.
She didn’t know what she expected after their marriage. Screaming? A night full of cruelty and passion? Her mind had imagined a dozen versions of how Dante might force himself into her life or body.
But silence?
That was worse.
He was waiting for her to break. She could feel it in her bones.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Downstairs, Dante poured a double shot of scotch into a glass he hadn’t used in five years. He watched the amber liquid catch the firelight, then turned toward the security monitors.
Elena’s figure moved restlessly in the master suite.
Caged. But not shattered.
Interesting.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted her to do scream, cry, run. But what he got was something else entirely. The girl was stubborn. Proud. Even when she was terrified, she stood straight, refused to beg, and met his eyes like she wasn’t the daughter of the man who ruined his life.
He downed the drink in one go.
The fire wasn’t from the scotch.
It was her.
That mouth. That temper. That infuriating sweetness she carried like armor.
He hadn’t touched her last night. Hadn’t even undone the buttons of her dress. Not because he didn’t want to but because she had stood there in front of him like a flame daring him to burn.
He was many things. But not careless with what he burned.
Not anymore.
Morning crept in with a soft gray light.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed still in her wedding gown. She hadn’t moved much all night, barely slept, afraid of what morning might bring.
But nothing came.
Not him.
Not a maid.
Not even breakfast.
Hunger eventually won out. She pulled off the gown—now wrinkled and dragging and found a robe in the closet, soft and silk and far too luxurious. As she made her way through the halls of the mansion, the scent of citrus and cedar floated down the corridor, leading her like a trail of perfume.
She followed it like a threat.
She found him in the kitchen shirtless, barefoot, and pouring coffee like he owned the sun.
Which, in his world, he probably did.
Dante didn’t look surprised to see her. In fact, he didn’t look at her at all.
“Morning, wife.”
That voice again. Deep. Smooth. And utterly unapologetic.
Elena crossed her arms. “You didn’t feed me.”
He finally looked up, lips curving slightly. “I didn’t know you were hungry.”
“I’m not one of your caged birds, Mr. Virello.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re the one I’ve let in the cage with a key in her hand.”
She flinched, not at the metaphor, but how right it felt.
He held out a plate, eggs and toast and perfectly cut fruit.
“Eat.”
She didn’t move.
“You afraid I poisoned it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
He shrugged. “Smart.”
Then he took a bite from the same plate, chewed slowly, and pushed it back toward her.
Her stomach betrayed her pride.
She took it.
They ate in silence, a war of glances and table clinks between bites.
When she finally set down her fork, she spoke. “Why me?”
It came out quiet. Too quiet.
Dante didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studied her like a puzzle he’d already solved.
“Because your father fears only two things losing power, and losing you.”
She swallowed.
“So you married me to hurt him?”
“No.” He sipped his coffee. “I married you to end him.”
Later that day, the mansion’s halls shifted.
People moved. Staff returned. Rooms opened.
It was no longer a cage. It was a stage.
And Elena was being dressed for her performance.
Her new wardrobe was overwhelming. Silks, velvets, heels sharp enough to kill a man probably the point. She refused to play along. Instead, she picked the simplest outfit she could find: black pants, white shirt, and boots flat enough to run in.
When she walked down the stairs, Dante was already waiting.
Suit crisp. Tie undone. Dangerous smirk intact.
He looked her over without shame. “You dress like you’re going to rob me.”
She met his gaze without blinking. “Maybe I am.”
“Try,” he said softly, stepping closer. “And see what happens.”
Her breath caught.
The air between them charged again, but this time it wasn’t fury. It was heat.
Tension with teeth.
“Where are we going?” she asked, desperate to shift the focus.
“Downtown,” he said. “A gallery. My painting is being unveiled.”
“You paint?”
He laughed. “No. I kill. But I own the gallery.”
Of course he did.
The car ride was silent. Until it wasn’t.
“Why did you really leave me alone last night?” she asked.
Dante didn’t glance over. “Would you have preferred I forced you?”
“No. But you married me. I thought”
“You thought I was a monster,” he finished. “And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still defiant.”
“Don’t expect me to fall for your games.”
“I don’t need you to fall, Elena,” he murmured. “I only need you to be seen. And to stand next to me.”
The way he said her name
Like it was a crown.
Or a knife.
The gallery was swarming with press. Cameras. Whispers.
But all of it fell silent the moment they stepped in.
The Virellos.
Elena felt the weight of every eye on her. She felt naked.
But Dante? He wore the spotlight like a second skin.
He leaned close, voice brushing her ear. “Smile. They’re dying to know if you regret it yet.”
She smiled like a queen. “Not yet. But the night is young.”
They moved like storm and shadow—her light in his dark orbit, him a storm wrapped in expensive tailoring. Together, they were a spectacle no one could look away from.
And Dante knew it.
Which made her hate him more.
Or want him more.
She couldn’t tell anymore.
That night, when they returned home, something cracked.
She turned to him in the foyer, breath shallow, heart loud.
“What happens now?” she asked.
Dante studied her like she was a cliff he might fall from. “You keep pretending you don’t care. And I keep pretending I don’t notice.”
He started to walk away but stopped at the base of the stairs.
“And Elena?”
She looked up.
“Don’t confuse my silence for surrender.”
She blinked. “And don’t confuse mine for obedience.”
They stared.
The silence wasn’t cold this time.
It burned.