Dante's POV
"Someone threatened her."
I stare at the report my head of security just handed me, rage burning through my veins. Someone sent Elena a warning text last night. Told her to stay away from me. Parked outside her apartment and scared her.
"Do we know who?" My voice is dangerously quiet.
"Still tracing the number. But sir, I should mention—Miss Ashford's vehicle was spotted in that neighborhood around the same time."
Vivienne. Of course.
The blonde vulture who thinks she has a claim on me because our families did business together. She's been circling for years, and my grandfather keeps pushing me toward her. "Good connections," he says. But Vivienne is poison wrapped in designer clothes.
And now she's threatening Elena.
"Handle it," I tell my security chief. "Make it clear that anyone who touches Elena Russo answers to me personally. I don't care who they are."
He nods and leaves. I sit back in my chair, trying to understand why I'm so angry.
This shouldn't matter. Elena is just a pawn in my plan. If Vivienne scares her off, I'll find someone else.
Except I don't want someone else.
The thought disturbs me more than it should.
I've spent three weeks courting Elena with calculated precision, and the plan is working perfectly.
Flowers arrive at her apartment every morning—her favorite white lilies mixed with roses. I researched what she likes, what makes her smile. Every gift is chosen to make her feel special, cherished, seen.
It's all manipulation, and she falls for it completely.
We have dinner four nights a week. I take her to museums, bookstores, quiet cafes where we can talk. I ask about her day, her classes, her dreams. I listen like I care.
The sick part? Sometimes I forget I'm pretending.
Elena talks about her literature assignments with so much passion that I find myself actually interested. She tells me about difficult patients at the hospital, and I want to fix their problems. She laughs at my dry jokes, and something warm spreads through my chest.
It's dangerous. I'm getting too comfortable with her.
"Tell me about your family," she asks one night over dinner.
My jaw tightens. "There's not much to tell. My parents died when I was twelve. My grandfather raised me."
"I'm so sorry." Her hand covers mine, warm and soft. "That must have been terrible."
I should pull away. Keep my distance. But her touch feels too good.
"It taught me to be strong," I say, which is partially true. It taught me that love kills and emotions are weaknesses that get exploited.
"You don't always have to be strong, you know," Elena says quietly. "It's okay to let someone in sometimes."
I look at her honey eyes, so full of genuine care, and something cracks in my chest. She actually believes that. She thinks I can be saved.
I kiss her instead of responding. It's supposed to be part of the act—gentle touches, romantic gestures, making her fall deeper. But when my lips meet hers, something shifts. The kiss is soft and careful, and I feel it in places I've kept locked away for twenty years.
This is bad. This is very bad.
"The girl is perfect," my grandfather announces during our weekly meeting. He's reviewing the background check on Elena—every detail of her sad, powerless life. "No family connections, drowning in debt, completely dependent. Good breeding stock. When are you proposing?"
The words "breeding stock" make my stomach turn. That's exactly what Elena is to me—a womb to produce an heir. So why does it suddenly sound so ugly?
"Soon," I say.
"Make it this week. I'm running out of time, Dante. The doctors say I have three months, maybe less. I need to see you married and that girl pregnant before I die."
Three months. The timeline is accelerating.
"I'll propose this weekend."
Grandfather smiles—a cold, satisfied expression. "Good. Once she's pregnant, you can divorce her and pay her off. Keep the child, dispose of the mother. Clean and simple."
My hands clench into fists under the desk. "Yes, sir."
That night, I buy a ring. A beautiful diamond that costs more than Elena's entire apartment building. It's not because I care—it's because the ring needs to dazzle her, overwhelm her, make her say yes without thinking.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
Three weeks to the day after our first date, I take Elena to the park where we had our second date. She's wearing a simple dress and looks happy—so genuinely happy that guilt twists in my gut.
"This is where you told me about your favorite book," I say, leading her to the bench where we sat before.
"You remembered." Her smile is radiant.
I remember everything about her. Every book she mentioned. Every dream she shared. Every small detail that makes Elena who she is.
That's the problem.
"Elena." I take both her hands, and they're trembling slightly. "These three weeks with you have been the best of my life."
It's supposed to be a lie. But as the words leave my mouth, I realize with horror that they might be true.
"You've shown me that there's still good in the world," I continue, following the script I planned. "That some people still believe in kindness and hope and—"
"Love?" she whispers, her eyes shining.
The word hits me like a bullet. Love. The thing that killed my parents. The weakness I've avoided my entire life.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Love."
I drop to one knee, and Elena's hands fly to her mouth.
"I know this is fast. I know it's crazy. But I don't want to waste another day without you in my life." I pull out the ring, and it sparkles in the afternoon sun. "Elena Russo, will you marry me?"
She's crying. Happy tears streaming down her face.
"Yes," she sobs. "Yes, yes, yes!"
I slip the ring on her finger and stand, pulling her into my arms. She's shaking and laughing and crying all at once. She kisses me like I'm her hero, her savior, her happy ending.
And I hold her close, this beautiful, trusting girl who has no idea that I'm her nightmare.
"I love you," she whispers against my lips.
The words should bounce off me. I should feel nothing.
But something inside me—something I thought died with my parents—stirs painfully to life.
"I love you too," I say, and the lie tastes like poison.
That night, I'm in my office reviewing the marriage contract my lawyers prepared. It's brutal and thorough: Elena gets pregnant, delivers the child, gets paid off, disappears. No custody rights. No claims to my empire.
She'll sign it thinking it's a standard prenup. By the time she realizes the truth, it'll be too late.
My phone buzzes with a text from Elena: "I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I can't believe you chose me. I love you so much."
I stare at the message, at the contract, at the ring receipt on my desk.
I should feel triumph. The plan is working perfectly.
Instead, I feel sick.
There's a knock on my door, and Luca enters without permission. He takes one look at my face and curses.
"You proposed to her."
"Yes."
"Dante, please tell me you're not going through with this. That girl loves you. Actually loves you. And you're going to—"
"Do what needs to be done." I cut him off coldly. "This is business, Luca. Nothing more."
"Business? You're destroying an innocent person for an empire you don't even want!"
His words hit too close to home. But I've come too far to back out now.
"Stay out of this," I warn him.
Luca stares at me with disappointment. "The day you hurt that girl, you'll lose whatever humanity you have left. And trust me, cousin—you won't survive it."
He leaves, and I'm alone with the contract and Elena's loving text.
I start typing a response: "I'm the lucky one."
But my hands are shaking.
Because somewhere in the past three weeks, something went catastrophically wrong with my plan.
I was supposed to make Elena fall in love with me.
I wasn't supposed to start falling back.