Elara's POV
My hand won't stop shaking.
I stare at the contract on Dante's desk—forty-seven pages that will decide the rest of my life. The paper is expensive, cream-colored, perfect. Just like everything in this office. Just like everything Dante Moretti touches.
"Second thoughts?" His voice cuts through the silence.
I look up. He's watching me like a scientist watching a lab rat. Studying. Calculating. Waiting to see if I'll run.
"No," I lie.
"Then sign."
The pen feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I pick it up anyway.
Page one: Party of the First Part (Dante Moretti) agrees to provide financial assistance to Party of the Second Part (Elara Sinclair) in exchange for...
My eyes blur. I flip faster, scanning the rules buried in legal language.
Must attend all public events as required.
Must maintain appearance standards outlined in Appendix C.
Must not embarrass or contradict Party of the First Part in any public setting.
Limited contact with family members, supervised only, at Party of the First Part's discretion.
That last one makes my stomach turn. Limited contact. Supervised. Like I'm a prisoner visiting other prisoners.
"Having trouble reading?" Dante asks. "I can summarize if the legal terms are too complex."
The insult is clear. He thinks I'm stupid. Just another pretty socialite who never had to think for herself.
"I understand perfectly," I say, turning another page. "You get to control every part of my life for two years. In exchange, my father stays out of prison and my mother gets medical care."
"Correct."
"And after two years?"
"We divorce. You walk away with enough money to restart your life. I walk away satisfied that justice was served."
Justice. He keeps using that word like it means something noble. But this isn't justice. This is revenge wrapped in legal paper.
I reach the final page. The signature line waits, blank and hungry.
My father's face flashes in my mind. The way he looked when the FBI put him in handcuffs. Broken. Terrified. Nothing like the confident man who used to fix everything with a phone call and a smile.
My mother, taking pills just to sleep. Just to wake up. Just to exist.
Victoria's voice echoes: Don't do this. There has to be another way.
But there isn't. I've looked. I've begged. I've searched for any other option.
There's only Dante's offer. Only this contract. Only surrender.
I sign my name: Elara Sinclair.
The ink looks darker than it should. Like blood.
Dante watches my signature dry, then picks up his own pen. His hand doesn't shake at all. He signs next to mine—bold, black letters that look exactly like him. Strong. Certain. Merciless.
Dante Moretti.
"Congratulations," he says, sliding the contract to his lawyer. "You're officially mine."
The word hangs in the air between us. Mine. Not engaged. Not partnered. Mine. Like I'm a car he just bought. A building he just acquired.
I stand up, needing to leave before I cry or scream or throw something at his perfect face.
"Wait," Dante says.
I freeze.
He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small black box. Velvet. Expensive. The kind of box that holds things that cost more than most people make in a year.
"You'll need this," he says, placing it on the desk between us.
I don't touch it. "What is it?"
"Open it and see."
My fingers feel numb as I pick up the box. It's heavier than expected. I flip it open.
Inside is a ring.
Not just any ring. A massive platinum band with a diamond so big it doesn't look real. The stone catches the light, throwing rainbows across Dante's desk. Beautiful. Cold. Perfect.
Just like a shackle.
"Put it on," Dante commands.
"I can do it myself."
"I know you can." He stands, walking around the desk. "But we should practice for the cameras. People need to believe this is real."
He takes the ring from the box before I can stop him. His hand wraps around mine—warm, strong, completely in control.
"Give me your left hand," he says quietly.
I do. I hate that I do. But the contract is signed now. Fighting over small things won't change anything.
Dante slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. He probably had someone measure my finger while I slept or something equally creepy.
The weight of it is enormous. I can barely lift my hand.
"There," Dante says, not letting go. "Now you look like you belong to me."
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
"Let me make something very clear, Elara." His voice drops low, dangerous. "This contract means I own every public moment of your life. Where you go. What you say. Who you talk to. Everything."
"I know. I read the contract."
"Did you read page thirty-four?"
My blood goes cold. Page thirty-four. I'd skimmed it, but...
Dante's smile is sharp. "Section twelve, paragraph three. 'Party of the Second Part agrees to cohabitate in Party of the First Part's primary residence beginning immediately upon contract execution.'"
"Immediately?" My voice cracks. "As in—"
"As in tonight. Marcus is already collecting your belongings from your hotel." He finally releases my hand. "Welcome home, wife."
The room spins. Tonight. I'm moving in with him tonight. Into his home. His space. His control.
"I need more time—"
"The contract says immediately. You signed it." Dante returns to his chair, picking up his phone like this conversation is already over. "My assistant will send you the address. Be there by eight."
"Dante—"
"That's Mr. Moretti to you. At least until the wedding."
Wedding. Right. Because signing a contract wasn't enough. We still have to do the actual ceremony. Stand in front of people and pretend this is love instead of ownership.
I turn toward the door, desperate to escape.
"Oh, and Elara?" Dante's voice stops me one last time. "Don't even think about running. I have people watching your mother's hospital. Your father's holding cell. Everyone you care about. If you disappear, the deal is void. Understood?"
I understand perfectly. I'm trapped. Completely, totally trapped.
I walk out without answering, the ring heavy on my finger like a chain.
In the elevator, I finally let myself look at it. The diamond catches the light, sparkling like it's mocking me. I try to pull it off.
It won't budge.
I pull harder. Nothing. It's stuck.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: 1247 Park Avenue, Penthouse. 8 PM. Don't be late. - DM
Then another message, this one with an attachment. I open it.
It's a photo.
Of my hotel room.
Empty.
Everything I owned—already gone.
My hands shake as I stare at the image. He wasn't bluffing. Marcus really did take all my things.
I have nothing left. Nowhere to go. No choice but to show up at Dante's penthouse tonight and begin my two-year sentence.
The elevator doors open to the lobby. I step out into the crowd of people rushing to normal jobs, normal lives, normal problems.
I'm not normal anymore.
I'm Mrs. Moretti now.
Or I will be in three days.
My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number: Saw the news about your engagement. We need to talk. Tonight. Before you move in with him. Trust no one. - A Friend
My heart stops.
Who sent this? How do they know about the engagement? It hasn't been announced yet.
And what do they mean "trust no one"?
I look back at Dante's building, then at my phone.
Someone out there knows what's happening. Someone wants to warn me.
But warn me about what?