Isla's POV
Three days passed faster than I expected.
I stood in City Hall wearing my best suit, waiting for my fake bride to arrive. Julian stood beside me, holding the marriage license and looking amused.
"You're actually going through with this," he said.
"Of course I am. I always follow through."
"Most people take longer than a week to get married."
"Most people aren't me." I checked my watch. 1:45 PM. Isla was late.
"What if she doesn't show?"
"She'll show. She wants revenge more than she wants safety." I straightened my tie. "People like us—people who've been betrayed—we don't back down. We double down."
Julian studied me. "You actually like her."
"I respect her. There's a difference."
Before I could answer, the heavy doors opened. Isla walked in, and I forgot how to breathe.
She wore a simple cream dress—not white, not a real wedding dress, but elegant. Her honey-blonde hair fell in soft waves. She'd done her makeup perfectly, emphasizing those emerald eyes.
She looked nothing like the broken girl from the bar. She looked like someone worth fighting for.
Which was dangerous, because this was business. Nothing more.
"Sorry I'm late," Isla said breathlessly. "Traffic was terrible."
"You're here. That's what matters." I offered my arm. "Ready to become Mrs. Salvatore?"
She hesitated, just for a second. Then took my arm. "Ready as I'll ever be."
The ceremony was quick, efficient, almost cold. A tired-looking judge read the vows in a monotone voice. Isla and I repeated the words like we were reading a grocery list.
"Do you, Dante Salvatore, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
"Do you, Isla Monroe, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Isla's voice was barely a whisper. "I do."
"By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The judge looked bored. "You may kiss the bride."
I turned to Isla. Her eyes were wide, nervous.
"We should make it look real," I murmured. "For the photographers outside."
"There are photographers?"
"I may have tipped off a few journalists." I cupped her face gently. "Just follow my lead."
I kissed her.
It was supposed to be quick. Professional. For show.
But the moment my lips touched hers, something shifted. She tasted like mint and fear and determination. Her hands gripped my jacket like she was drowning and I was solid ground.
I deepened the kiss before I could stop myself.
When we pulled apart, Isla's cheeks were flushed. My heart was beating too fast.
"That was..." she started.
"For the cameras," I said quickly. "Good performance."
"Right. Performance." But she wouldn't meet my eyes.
Julian cleared his throat loudly. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore. If you'll just sign here..."
We signed the marriage certificate. My handwriting, then hers. Making it official. Legal. Real, even though nothing about it was real.
Outside City Hall, at least twenty photographers waited. The moment we stepped through the doors, cameras exploded with flashes.
"Mr. Salvatore! Over here!"
"Is this revenge against Marcus Wellington?"
I pulled Isla close, my arm around her waist. "My wife and I are very happy. We appreciate your interest, but we'd like privacy to celebrate."
"Just one question! How long have you been together?"
Isla tensed. We hadn't discussed this part.
"Long enough to know she's the one," I said smoothly. "When you know, you know."
"Isla, any comment on your ex-fiancé's reaction?"
Isla's grip on my hand tightened. I felt her fear, her uncertainty.
Then something changed. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted.
"I don't think about my ex-fiancé," she said clearly. "I'm too busy being happy with my husband."
The cameras went wild.
I guided her to the waiting car, leaving the chaos behind.
The moment the door closed, Isla let out a shaky breath.
"I can't believe I just did that."
"You were perfect." I meant it.
"I was terrified."
"Couldn't tell. You looked like you owned the world."
She laughed, but it sounded slightly hysterical. "I'm married. To you. This is insane."
"Technically insane. Strategically brilliant." I pulled out my phone. "We're already trending. Two million tweets in the last hour."
Isla leaned over to look at the screen. Her shoulder pressed against mine. She smelled like jasmine.
Focus, Dante.
"Look at this one," I said, showing her a tweet. "'Dante Salvatore just married Isla Monroe and I'm LIVING for this revenge arc.'"
"They think I married you for revenge."
"You did marry me for revenge. Among other reasons."
"The money," she said quietly. "Ten million dollars."
"Plus the satisfaction of watching your enemies fall." I pocketed my phone. "Speaking of which, Julian finished the investigation into your stepfather's finances."
I handed her a folder. Isla opened it, scanning the documents inside.
Her face went pale. "This can't be real."
"It's real. Leonard Monroe has been embezzling from your trust fund for eight years. Roughly 2.3 million dollars."
"That's my mother's money. She left it for me."
"I know. And we're going to get every penny back." I pointed to another document. "Plus, we found evidence he's been laundering money through his art gallery. The IRS is very interested."
Isla's hands shook. "He's going to prison?"
"If we play this right, yes. Along with Patricia."
"And Victoria?"
"Victoria's crimes are social, not legal. But we have other plans for her." I pulled out my tablet, showing her a compiled video. "Remember those emails Alessa found? We're releasing them tomorrow."
The video showed Victoria's emails plotted on a timeline. Weeks of planning Marcus's seduction. Deliberate, calculated cruelty.
"The world will see exactly who she is," I said. "Not the perfect golden child. A manipulative snake who destroyed her own sister for fun."
Isla's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. "Why are you doing all this?"
"I told you. I need a wife to keep my company."
"That doesn't explain the revenge help. The investigations. Everything."
I was quiet for a moment, watching Manhattan stream past the car windows.
"My father had two sons," I finally said. "Me, the bastard from his mistress. And my half-brother, the legitimate heir. Guess which one got everything?"
Isla turned to face me fully.
"When my father died, he left his entire fortune to my brother. I got nothing." My jaw clenched. "Because I was the shameful secret. The mistake."
"Dante..."
"I built my own empire from nothing. Became richer than my father ever was. More powerful." I met her eyes. "But I never forgot what it felt like to be dismissed. Treated like I didn't matter. So when I see someone else being crushed by people who should protect them, I understand."
"This isn't just business for you."
"No," I admitted. "It's personal. Your stepfamily reminds me of my father. Taking what isn't theirs. Treating you like you're worthless." I leaned closer. "I want to destroy them because they deserve it. And because I know exactly how sweet that revenge will taste."
Isla was quiet for a long moment. Then she did something unexpected.
She hugged me.
Not a romantic embrace. A genuine, desperate hug. Like she'd been holding herself together for so long and finally found someone who understood.
I stiffened at first. I didn't do comfort. Didn't do emotions.
But slowly, carefully, I hugged her back.
"We're going to make them pay," I said into her hair. "All of them. Together."
"Together," she whispered. "I like the sound of that."
The car pulled up to the penthouse. Our home now. Legally shared.
"Mrs. Salvatore," I said, offering my hand to help her out.
She took it, smiling slightly. "That's going to take some getting used to."
We rode the elevator up in comfortable silence. When the doors opened, Isla paused.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing. I just realized something." She turned to me. "For the first time in years, I don't feel powerless."
"You can fight back now. You will." I loosened my tie. "Starting tomorrow, we go to war."
"What's tomorrow?"
"Press conference. We announce our marriage officially. Control the narrative."
"More cameras."
"More cameras. More questions. More chances to show the world you're not a victim anymore." I poured two glasses of scotch, handing her one. "Think you can handle it?"
Isla took the glass, raised it. "To revenge?"
I clinked my glass against hers. "To revenge. And to the beginning of their end."
We drank.
Somewhere across Manhattan, Marcus and Victoria were probably panicking. Leonard and Patricia were scrambling.
But they were too late.
The game had already started.
And Dante Salvatore never lost.