The morning came.
Manhattan's skyline was wrapped in low clouds, the city slow to wake after the storm. Rain still clung to the streets like glass, and the traffic below Moretti Tower moved sluggishly through puddles reflecting a colorless dawn.
In a small apartment across the city, Aria Lane hadn't slept.
Her father was passed out on the couch, a bottle of cheap whiskey at his feet, his face turned away from the light. The contract, the one she'd torn apart in Dante Moretti's office, lay in pieces on the coffee table.
She had spent hours staring at those torn pages.
Hours replaying his words.
"You marry me, Miss Lane… or your father's debt becomes his death sentence."
The arrogance in his voice. The calm certainty. The way he looked at her, not as a person, but as something to be claimed.
She had wanted to hate him.
She did.
But beneath that hate was something more dangerous.
A curiosity she couldn't shake.
Who was Dante Moretti, really? A man with power like that didn't just appear out of nowhere. He was feared, whispered about in rooms where people wore diamonds and lies. He moved like the city belonged to him, and in a way, maybe it did.
By eight a.m., she had made her choice.
She wasn't doing this for him. Or even for her father.
She was doing it because no one, no one,got to pull her strings.
If Dante Moretti thought he could make her his pawn, she would show him exactly who he was playing with.
When the elevator opened to the top floor of Moretti Tower, she stepped out with her chin high and her heart pounding.
The penthouse stretched like an empire of black glass and sharp lines. Every detail screamed power and precision the leather, the marble, the silence.
He was already there.
Dante stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Morning light caught the ink along his forearm tattoos in elegant black script, winding across muscle and bone. His hair was still damp from a shower, and a faint trace of cologne lingered in the air, dark and expensive.
When he turned, those silver eyes locked onto her instantly.
"Miss Lane," he said smoothly. "To what do I owe this early visit?"
Aria met his gaze without flinching. "You said I had until midnight to decide."
"I did."
"Well, I'm not waiting that long."
He raised a brow. "Impatient?"
"Practical," she said. "If I'm going to sell my soul, I'd rather do it before lunch."
For a split second, the corner of his mouth curved upward. "Sit."
She didn't move. "I'll stand."
"Suit yourself."
Dante walked behind his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a fresh folder the same one she'd ripped apart the night before, replaced as if nothing had happened.
Aria's stomach turned. "You really had another copy ready."
"Of course." He looked up at her. "You learn, in my line of work, that people are predictable. Anger, pride, rebellion it all ends the same way. Compliance."
"I'm not predictable," she said sharply.
"No," Dante agreed. "You're interesting. There's a difference."
Their eyes met again, a battle fought in silence.
He gestured toward the folder. "Read it."
Aria approached the desk, but she didn't pick it up. "Before I read a word, we need to set something straight."
Dante leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained. "Go on."
"If I agree to this farce," she said, "we do it my way. I won't be paraded around like a trophy. I won't sleep in your bed. I won't wear your name unless it's absolutely necessary. And when the year is over, I walk away clean without you, without your shadow following me."
He studied her quietly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "You have quite the list of demands for someone who's technically begging for mercy."
"I'm not begging," she said coldly. "I'm bargaining."
Dante's eyes gleamed, amusement and respect intertwining. "And what exactly makes you think you're in a position to bargain?"
"Because you need me," Aria replied. "You said it yourself. You want someone clean someone untouchable to calm your investors. You can't fake that with another model or socialite. You need credibility, not decoration."
His silence stretched.
She pressed on. "And I'm offering it. But if I'm signing that contract, it'll be on equal footing. Not as your property."
The air between them shifted.
For the first time, Dante didn't have a ready answer. He looked at her really looked and saw something he hadn't expected: not fear, not submission, but power. Quiet, stubborn, unyielding.
He rose from his chair, slow and deliberate. "You've done your homework."
"I learn fast."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "You have no idea what you're walking into."
"I know exactly what I'm walking into," she said. "A cage. I just plan to decorate it before you lock the door."
Something flickered in his eyes admiration, maybe, or the ghost of a smile. "You're different from the rest."
"Good. Then you'll remember me when this is over."
Dante's hand brushed over the folder, sliding it toward her again. "Fine. Your terms are acceptable… for now. But I'll warn you, Aria Lane everything comes with a cost."
"I've already paid mine," she said quietly. "My freedom."
The room fell into silence again, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the hum of the city far below.
Finally, Dante reached for a pen. "Let's seal it."
Aria took it from him, her hand trembling despite herself. She signed her name at the bottom of the contract, her emerald eyes never leaving his silver ones.
When she was done, he took the paper, glanced at her signature, and nodded once. "Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Moretti."
"I'm not your wife," she said flatly.
"Not yet."
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.
"You should move into the penthouse tonight. My assistant will arrange your things. And Aria…"
She froze. "What?"
"Wear something black." His tone softened, almost teasing. "The devil prefers his angel in mourning."
Her heart jumped before she could stop it. She didn't respond just left, heels striking hard against the marble.
As the elevator doors closed, she caught one last glimpse of him, Dante Moretti standing in the morning light, calm, unreadable, already planning his next move.
And though she told herself she hated him, a quiet, terrifying truth stirred inside her:
Part of her wanted to understand him.
To know why a man like that needed anyone at all.