The dress was white.
Someone had placed it there while she was bathing. A maid probably
She dropped her towel and reached for the dress.
She wore her Underwear. The slide of fabric over damp skin. Arms through sleeves. She left the back unbuttoned—couldn't reach them all herself and sat at the vanity to deal with her hair.
The face in the mirror was familiar. She'd worn it for years.
Soft eyes. Gentle mouth. A slight furrow between her brows that suggested worry, vulnerability, the constant low-grade anxiety of a girl who wanted desperately to please .
Her father's creation.
He'd started shaping her young. Seven, maybe eight. Old enough to understand consequences, young enough to be molded.
She'd learned.
Children always learned, when the lessons hurt enough.
A knock at the door.
"It's me."
Alessio's voice, low and careful. She didn't answer, but she didn't lock him out either. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
"Your father's car just pulled through the gate."
Elara's hands didn't pause. She continued brushing her hair, long strokes that pulled at her scalp.
"How long?"
"Five minutes. Maybe less."
She set the brush down and stood, turning her back to him. "The buttons."
A pause. Then his footsteps, crossing the room. He'd done this before. Helped her dress for events, for meetings, for every performance her father required.
"Elara."
"Don't."
"You don't have to—"
"Yes." She cut him off, her voice flat. "I do."
The last button slipped into place. His hands fell away.
She turned to face him. Alessio's jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something he wasn't allowed to say. He'd watched her prepare for her father dozens of times. He knew what it cost her. Knew what happened behind closed doors when Vittorio Rossi was displeased.
He'd never been able to stop it.
"I'll be in the hallway," he said. "If you need—"
"I won't."
The words were automatic. She'd said them before. She'd say them again. It was a script they both knew by heart: him offering, her refusing, both of them pretending it meant something.
Alessio hesitated. For a moment, she thought he might say something else ,something that would crack the glass she'd built around herself.
He didn't.
He just nodded, once, and left.
Elara looked at herself in the mirror one last time. The dress was perfect. The hair was perfect. The face was perfect.
Good girl, her father's voice whispered in her memory. Now hold it.
She held it.
The study again.
Damien hadn't moved from behind his desk. Same position, same complete disinterest in the woman he'd married. Sofia was gone, at least—small mercy.
Elara stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, eyes downcast. Waiting to be acknowledged.
Damien didn't look up from his papers.
"Your father will be shown in when he arrives. You'll sit there." A slight gesture toward a chair in the corner. In the corner, like a decorative object. "You'll speak when spoken to. You'll say nothing about where you've been or what happened."
"Yes."
"If he asks about your... condition, you'll say you're fine. Recovering. Grateful to be home."
Home. As if this place was anything but another cage.
"I understand."
Damien's pen paused. He glanced up—a flicker of something crossing his face. Annoyance? Curiosity? It was gone before she could name it.
"You're very agreeable," he said.
Elara kept her eyes on the floor. "I want to please you."
Silence.
She could feel him studying her. Trying to fit the woman in front of him into a box he understood. A problem he'd have to manage until he could dispose of her father and find a more suitable arrangement.
"Sit down," he said finally. "He's here."
Vittorio Rossi entered the room
He was a tall man, her father. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, handsome in the way of men who'd never been told no. His suit was immaculate. His smile was warm. His eyes—
His eyes found Elara immediately.
"My darling girl."
He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her up from the chair and into his arms before she could react. A father's embrace. Tight. Protective. The kind of hug that looked like love.
His hand pressed against her lower back. His mouth beside her ear.
"Smile," he murmured. "Or I'll give you something to cry about later."
Elara smiled.
She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest like a daughter who'd been rescued.
"I missed you, Daddy"
Vittorio pulled back, holding her at arm's length. His eyes moved over her—
"Let me look at you." His hands framed her face, tilting it toward the light. "My poor girl. What that animal did to you..."
"I'm okay." Her voice came out small. "I'm just glad to be home."
"Of course you are." He kissed her forehead"Of course you are."
Behind them, Damien watched.
Elara couldn't see his face, but she felt his attention. A weight at the back of her skull.
Vittorio released her, turning to face Damien with a different smile.
"Damien. I appreciate you... retrieving her."
"She's my wife." Damien's voice was ice.
"Of course." Vittorio's smile didn't waver. "Still. The insult Lucian delivered—to both our families—won't go unanswered."
"I'll handle my brother."
"I have no doubt." A pause. "But perhaps we should discuss the... implications. In terms of our agreement."
The agreement. The marriage contract. Territory, assets, alliances—all contingent on Elara being a suitable wife. Untouched. Valuable.
Lucian had taken that value and shredded it.
Elara kept her eyes down, her hands folded, her face arranged in appropriate distress.
He's irritated. Not with me—with my father.
"The agreement stands," Damien said flatly. "Your daughter is still my wife. The territory transfer will proceed as planned."
"And the matter of... heirs?"
Elara felt it ripple through her. Heirs. Children. The thing she was supposed to produce with her body, from a man who'd made it clear he'd never touch her now.
Damien's expression didn't change. "That's not your concern."
"She's my daughter. Her future is absolutely my—"
"She's my wife." Damien stood, and the temperature in the room dropped. "Which makes her future mine. Are we finished?"
A long pause.
Vittorio's smile remained fixed, but something flickered behind his eyes. He wasn't used to being dismissed. Wasn't used to men who didn't fold under his pressure.
*Interesting Elara thought. He's scared of Damien. Or at least... wary.
"I'd like a moment alone with my daughter," Vittorio said. "If you don't mind. Family matter."
Damien's gaze flicked to Elara.
She kept her face blank. Soft. A daughter who wanted nothing more than private time with her father. No flicker of fear. No silent plea for him to refuse.
Don't see it, she thought. Don't notice. Just let him take me into another room and do what he always does and pretend you didn't know.
Damien looked back at Vittorio.
"Five minutes." I'm
He walked out.
The door closing behind him.
And Elara was alone with her father.