Chapter 9
9
EMILIA
T hree hours later, I sat in the back of the chauffeured SUV, drowning in shopping bags from every high-end boutique the city had to offer. The absurdity of it all—this entire day—reminded me of the first time Dante had taken me shopping. Back then, I’d thought I could resist him. Back then, I’d thought I had a choice.
Leo, the Conti soldier Dante had sent to replace my brother, sat in the front passenger seat like a silent sentinel. His sharp eyes scanned every street we passed, his posture rigid, his presence a constant reminder that even here, surrounded by luxury, I wasn’t truly free.
The driver hadn’t flinched when I handed him Dante’s black card and told him to take me to the most expensive stores in the city. Apparently, working for the Contis made you immune to the absurd. The man probably ferried people around for million-dollar errands on a daily basis.
I leaned back against the plush leather seat, scrolling through my phone as the car glided through the city streets. The thrill I’d felt earlier, tossing designer heels and silk dresses onto counters without a second thought, had dulled. Each swipe of Dante’s card was supposed to feel like some small act of rebellion, a tiny victory in this ridiculous arrangement. But now, as the adrenaline faded, all I was left with was a gnawing unease that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. No handbag or pair of shoes could distract me from the fact that the contract—the chains Dante had wrapped around my life—still loomed over me.
My phone buzzed, and I glanced down to see a message from Dante.
Dante: How’s the spending spree?
I smirked, typing out a quick reply.
Me: Productive. The chip’s still intact, though. I’m disappointed.
His response came almost immediately.
Dante: You’ll have to try harder.
I rolled my eyes, about to type back something equally sarcastic when another message popped up.
Dante: I didn’t peg you for a La Perla girl.
My blood ran cold as I read the message several times, the words sinking in deeper with each pass.
Of course, he got the transactions sent to him. Of course, he knew. Dante probably knew about every breath I took, every step I made in this ridiculous arrangement of his. And yet, we were here—trading jabs over text like this was some twisted game instead of a war. He thought I’d stolen $20 million from him. He thought I’d betrayed him. And still, he acted like this was a courtship, not a battle. The most ridiculous part? I was letting him.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, my pulse racing. Stay calm, Emilia, I told myself. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he gets under your skin.
Me: Something to show off to the house staff once you keep me locked in your castle.
The message sent, and I stared at the screen, my heart pounding as I waited for his reply. The little typing bubble popped up almost immediately, taunting me as I imagined that smug look on his face, the one that made me want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.
Dante: If you’re going to play the dramatic captive, at least wear something I’d actually want to rip off you.
My breath caught in my throat, and a flush crept up my neck.
Me: Good to know you’re already planning wardrobe destruction. Should I add that as a clause in the contract? “Husband agrees to replace all ruined garments.”
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, the sarcasm dripping from the words like venom.
His response came faster than I expected.
Dante: You don’t need a contract for that, princess. You just need to behave yourself.
That damned nickname set something off in me every time he used it. Like it was his way of reminding me that he held all the power here, that no matter how much I fought back, I was playing on his chessboard.
I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him get the last word.
Me: “Behave yourself”? You must be confusing me with someone else. That’s not really my thing.
I smirked as I typed and hit send, but the smirk faded the second his next message arrived.
Dante: I know. That’s what makes you fun.
I stared at the screen, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something about the way he said it—like he knew me too well, like he enjoyed the challenge I presented. My stomach twisted, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous curling low in my belly.
Of course, he thought this was a game. Of course, he thought he always had the upper hand.
But two could play this game.
Me: Glad I can keep you entertained. Let me know if I should order a clown costume to really sell it.
I sat back, satisfied, waiting for his response. The typing bubble appeared, then stopped, then appeared again. He was thinking about it, and that alone felt like a small victory.
Finally, his reply came through.
Dante: Don’t tempt me. I've always said how red looks good on you.
I let out an exasperated groan, tossing my phone onto the seat beside me. Of course, he had to turn it into that . Every word out of his mouth—or in this case, his texts—was designed to get under my skin, to make me react.
And the worst part? It was working.
I snatched the phone back up, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
Me: Is this just your way of confessing a fetish for overpriced lingerie?
The typing bubble appeared again, and I braced myself for whatever smug response he was about to unleash.
Dante: Overpriced? Princess, you’re underselling yourself. I’d spend twice that just to catch a glimpse of you in it.
My breath hitched, my lips parting as I read the message over again, the weight of his words sending a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore—the possessiveness, the way he spoke like I already belonged to him.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw the phone across the car and scream. But instead, I found myself typing back, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Me: Do I get to see the receipts for that, or do I just have to take your word for it?
His response came almost immediately.
Dante: You’ll see it when you try it on.
I stared at the screen, my heart racing as the implications of his words sank in. He wasn’t just playing games anymore; he was setting the rules, reminding me that no matter how much I pushed back, he was always three steps ahead.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom, casting golden streaks across the walls. I stretched out on the chaise by the window, a half-empty glass of rosé balanced precariously on the edge of the side table. The summer warmth was fading fast, and I was determined to soak up every last bit of it before fall arrived and turned everything gray and cold—inside and out.
Adrianna’s honeymoon photos were still open on my phone, the screen dimming slightly as I stared at the last picture she’d sent. She and Michael were on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean, the kind of place where the water was so blue it didn’t look real. Her smile was radiant, her hair tousled by the sea breeze, and Michael’s hand rested possessively on her waist.
Despite everything, she looked happy. Genuinely happy.
And I hated that I couldn’t bring myself to feel the same for her. But knowing myself better than anyone I knew that this pesky emotion stirring in my chest was jealousy.
I tossed the phone onto the cushion beside me, rubbing at the ache in my chest that had been there since the wedding. The memory of Dante’s hand gripping my arm, his dark eyes burning with jealousy and something else I couldn’t name, lingered like a bruise that refused to fade.
He’d broken my heart that night.
Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
The bastard had stormed into my life like a hurricane, tearing through everything I thought I knew about myself, about my family, about loyalty. And now, he was everywhere. In my thoughts, in my phone, in the goddamn photo albums that had taken over my desk.
I glanced at the stack of leather-bound albums sitting in the corner of the room, their presence a constant reminder of the impossible task he’d dumped in my lap. Two more had shown up this morning, delivered by the same silent courier who refused to make eye contact with me. I’d nearly tripped over the box on my way out to grab coffee, cursing Dante’s name under my breath as I dragged it inside.
The albums were mocking me, their pristine covers practically daring me to keep going. I’d made it through one and a half so far, and all I had to show for it was a headache and a vague sense of déjà vu. Every face blurred together after a while—sharp suits, cold smiles, and eyes that hinted at secrets I didn’t want to uncover.
I’d briefly considered outsourcing the task, Googling private investigators in the area and scrolling through their websites while sipping my morning coffee. But the more I read, the more paranoid I became. Their privacy clauses weren’t nearly as ironclad as I wanted, and the last thing I needed was some nosy PI digging too deep and stumbling onto something that could make this whole situation even worse.
So, here I was. Alone. Staring at albums filled with faces I didn’t recognize, trying to solve a mystery I wasn’t even sure I wanted the answer to.
With a sigh, I pushed myself off the chaise and padded over to the desk, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. The latest album sat on top of the stack, its leather cover smooth and cool under my fingertips. I flipped it open, the scent of old paper and faint cologne wafting up as I turned the pages.
Nothing.
Another page.
Still nothing.
I groaned, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my temples. This was pointless. I decided to sit by the pool instead.
I grabbed my glass of rosé and slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses, the kind that screamed I’m avoiding responsibility but doing it fabulously. The pool was quiet this time of day, the water shimmering like liquid glass under the sun. It was one of the few perks of living in this gilded cage of a house—when my brothers weren’t around to ruin it, at least.
I stretched out on a lounger, letting the warmth seep into my skin. The rosé was still chilled, the condensation dripping down the stem of the glass as I took a slow sip. For a moment, I let myself pretend that this was normal. That I wasn’t flipping through albums of potential criminals in my spare time. That I wasn’t engaged— forced —to marry the most infuriating man I’d ever met. That my life wasn’t spiraling out of control like a car with cut brakes.
But, of course, reality had other plans.
My phone buzzed on the small table beside me, the screen lighting up with a text. I didn’t need to check to know who it was. Dante had been relentless lately, his messages a steady drip of taunts, commands, and the kind of flirtation that made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t want to think about.
Ignoring it seemed like the mature thing to do. So, naturally, I didn’t.
I picked up the phone, sliding my thumb across the screen to read the latest gem he’d sent.
Dante: Three hours and no snarky texts? Should I be worried?
I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out of my head. Of course, he’d turn my silence into some kind of game. Everything with Dante was a game—one he always thought he was winning.
I set the phone back down without replying, determined not to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the sun lull me into a false sense of peace.
The nerve of him. As if I owed him anything. As if he hadn’t been the one to push me away, to bruise me—literally and figuratively—and then act like I was the problem. The audacity was almost impressive.
Almost.
I tried to push the thought of him out of my head, focusing instead on the rhythmic sound of the water lapping against the edges of the pool. But it was no use. Dante was like a splinter—small, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Even when he wasn’t here, he was everywhere. In my thoughts, in my phone, in the goddamn albums that sat like a ticking time bomb in my room.
Another buzz. Another message.
I groaned, snatching the phone off the table. This time, I didn’t bother trying to ignore it.
Dante: I saw something today, and it reminded me of you. Care to guess what it was?
I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My first instinct was to fire back something cutting, something that would wipe that smug smirk off his face. But then I hesitated. That’s what he wanted. He thrived on the back-and-forth, on the push-and-pull that kept me tethered to him even when I wanted to run.
So, instead, I set the phone down again and reached for my glass of rosé. Let him stew in the silence for a while. Let him wonder if I was ignoring him—or if I was planning something worse.
The thought brought a small, satisfied smile to my lips. For once, I had the upper hand, and I wasn’t about to let it go.
Hours passed in a haze of sun and wine. By the time I dragged myself back inside, the sky was streaked with shades of orange and pink, the first hints of twilight creeping in. I felt lighter, the weight of the day’s frustrations momentarily dulled by the warmth of the sun and the buzz of alcohol.
But that lightness didn’t last long.
The albums were waiting for me, stacked neatly on the desk like they’d been placed there by some invisible hand. I frowned, certain I’d left them in a haphazard pile before heading outside. It was probably one of the house staff—always tidying, always organizing, always reminding me that nothing in this house was truly mine.
With a resigned sigh, I sat down and flipped open the next album. The faces blurred together as I turned page after page, my frustration mounting with each unfamiliar profile. Whoever this elusive cousin was, he was doing a damn good job of staying hidden.
I reached for my phone, considering another round of private investigator research, but stopped short. Dante’s messages were still there, unread, taunting me from the screen. I swiped them away with a sharp motion, determined not to let him distract me again.
But as the hours dragged on, my resolve began to waver. The albums were a dead end, the faces all blending into one indistinct mass of dark suits and cold smiles. My patience was wearing thin, and the wine was no longer enough to dull the edge of my frustration.
By the time I finally caved and picked up my phone, it was well past midnight. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and oppressive, like the walls were closing in.
Dante: Good girls don't ghost their fiancés.
I tapped out a quick reply, my fingers moving almost on their own.
Me: Bad girls make them beg for attention.
The response was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for me.
Dante: Don't worry, I haven't forgotten which one you are.
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anger. He always did this—pushed and pulled, baited and teased until I didn’t know which way was up. And the worst part? I let him. Every. Single. Time.
But not tonight. Tonight, I was done playing his games.
Me: Goodnight.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, tossing the phone onto the bed and flopping down beside it. The reply came almost instantly, but I didn’t bother reading it. Let him stew for once. Let him wonder.
As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the memory of the first time we’d spent an afternoon together crept into my mind. It had been nothing like this—no games, no tension, just two people caught in a moment that felt strangely… easy. Natural.
I hated that I missed it. Hated that, despite everything, a part of me still wanted to believe that version of him was real.
I’d decided if he wanted to keep tabs on my spending, I was going to make it worth his while.
It started with a simple Google search: high-end lingerie brands. Not just the usual suspects, either. I went deep, hunting down exclusivity, luxury, and anything that might make Dante’s credit card company raise an eyebrow. Russian brands? Absolutely. I made a point to find at least three, ordering an obnoxiously expensive house coat from one and a silk slip from another that I already planned to return. But the pièce de résistance? A robe so sheer it was practically invisible, custom-made from a boutique in Moscow that only catered to the elite.
I wasn’t done. French, Italian, Japanese, even an obscure brand from Switzerland—all of them found their way into my cart. It didn’t matter if it was a pair of stockings, a lace bralette, or a satin chemise I’d never wear. I was thorough. By the time I was done, I’d placed orders at so many boutiques I’d lost count.
Let him stew on that.
The next morning, I woke to find another text waiting for me.
Dante: The albums aren’t going to look through themselves, princess. Get to work.
I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. So much for ignoring him.
With a resigned sigh, I grabbed the phone and typed out a reply.
Me: You’re lucky I like a challenge.
His response was instant, as always.
Dante: And you’re lucky I like bad girls.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at my lips. He was infuriatingly quick, infuriatingly arrogant, and—worst of all—infuriatingly charming.
Still, I wasn’t about to let him win. I fired back.
Me: I hope you like your notifications and inbox clogged, because I’ve been a very bad girl.
The little typing bubble popped up almost immediately, and I could picture him sitting somewhere, smirking as he responded.
Dante: Define “bad.”
I smirked, tossing the phone onto the bed as I stretched, the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Let him figure it out. In the meantime, I had coffee to drink, mugs to admire, and a pile of lingerie receipts to revel in.
The day was off to a great start.
My next act of rebellion was far less subtle: Starbucks. Lots and lots of Starbucks. If I was going to be treated like a princess trapped in a castle, I decided I might as well lean into it and order myself coffee. A venti caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle, a ham and Swiss croissant, and a slice of lemon loaf.
While I was at it, I decided to start looking for that Starbucks You Are Here mug collection. I’d always wanted one, but it seemed like the perfect time to indulge. Instead of heading to a nearby store, though, I did what any rational woman with unlimited funds would do: I hunted down the priciest resellers I could find. A mug of Tokyo? Sure, $200 seemed reasonable. Paris? Another $150. Dubai? Hand it over. I bought five on the spot, just to see how long it would take Dante to notice the absurdity. But as I stared at the total, a thought crossed my mind: This was too easy. What was a few hundred dollars to a man like Dante? Pennies. If I really wanted to make him sweat, I needed to think bigger.
I pulled out my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Custom luxury mugs. The search results were underwhelming—gold-plated, hand-painted, artisan-crafted—but still too cheap to make a man like Dante flinch. I needed something absurd. Something obscene. Something that would make even his credit card company raise an eyebrow.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I typed: diamond-encrusted mugs.
The first few links were promising: Swarovski crystals, platinum finishes, even one that claimed to be "fit for royalty." But they still weren’t enough. None of them screamed excess the way I wanted them to. I clicked through page after page, scrolling past jeweled handles and gemstone embellishments that felt almost pedestrian. Finally, I found it: a boutique in Geneva that specialized in custom creations for “discerning clientele.”
I clicked the link, my curiosity piqued. The homepage was sparse, minimalist, the kind of website that didn’t flaunt its prices because its clients didn’t need to ask. A single headline caught my eye: “Your vision, realized in precious stones and metals.”
Now we wre talking.
The inquiry form was simple enough: Name, contact information, and a short description of what I wanted. I hesitated for only a second before typing: Bespoke mug, platinum base, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Handle to be solid gold. Lid optional, but if included, must feature a large solitaire diamond as a centerpiece. I paused, rereading the description, then added: Price is not a concern. Please contact me with design options.
Satisfied, I hit send.
But I wasn’t done. If I was going to make Dante regret giving me free rein, I couldn’t stop at just one absurd purchase. My next search was even more specific: custom luxury everyday items. The results were mesmerizing. A diamond-encrusted hairbrush? Yes, please. A pen crafted from meteorite fragments? Why not. A pair of solid gold chopsticks with ruby accents? Add to cart.
I went down the rabbit hole, clicking on anything that looked ridiculous enough to make Dante’s blood pressure spike. By the time I was done, I’d placed inquiries for everything from a sapphire-encrusted toilet seat (because why not?) to a set of platinum drinking straws decorated with emeralds.
By the time I finished my shopping spree, my phone buzzed with a notification from one of the boutiques: Your inquiry is being processed. Our team will reach out within 24 hours to discuss options. I smiled, imagining the look on Dante’s face when his finance team saw the requests piling up. Let him stew. If he wanted to keep tabs on my spending, he was about to realize just how expensive rebellion could be.
As I closed my laptop, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. This was petty, ridiculous, over-the-top in every way—and it felt glorious. For once, I was the one in control, even if it was just for a moment. Sure, Dante had the final say on everything, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. If he wanted to play games, I was more than happy to oblige.
A notification buzzed on my phone: Your Starbucks order is on the way. I grabbed the phone, scrolling through the long list of purchases I’d made that morning. Mugs, lingerie, a venti caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle—it was all there, each transaction a tiny victory.
Maybe this arranged marriage thing wouldn’t be so bad—if it meant watching Dante lose his mind every time I decided to be a little…bad.