Chapter 11
11
EMILIA
T he contract sat between us, thick and smug, like it knew it had won.
I tapped the pen against the table, staring at the signature line as if I could will it into disappearing. Dante, of course, was the picture of patience—leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating smirk that made me want to stab him with the pen instead of using it for its intended purpose.
"What's the hesitation, princess?" he drawled, his voice smooth and taunting. "Cold feet?"
I shot him a glare, gripping the pen tighter. "Oh, I don’t know, Dante. Maybe it’s the part where I’m legally binding myself to a man who thinks ‘foreplay’ is financial extortion."
He chuckled, the sound low and infuriatingly amused. "You wound me."
I rolled my eyes, flipping through the pages one last time. I’d gone through every clause, every ridiculous demand, and despite my best efforts, he hadn’t let me change a damn thing. The spicy clauses? Still there. The financial control? Still there. The whole ‘you belong to me’ subtext? Oh, that was practically written in bold.
But at the end of the day, I had no choice.
With a resigned sigh, I scrawled my signature across the bottom of the page, the ink bleeding into the paper like a death sentence.
Dante reached for the contract the second I set the pen down, flipping through it with practiced ease before nodding in satisfaction. "Good. Now we’re getting married."
I blinked. "What?"
He stood, smoothing out his sleeves like we’d just wrapped up a business deal instead of, you know, my life. "You heard me."
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "You mean… eventually, right? Like, we’ll set a date, send out invitations, argue over flower arrangements?—"
He tossed a white garment bag onto the table in front of me.
I stared at it. Then at him. Then back at it.
"You’re joking," I said flatly.
Dante arched a brow. "Do I look like I’m joking?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it, because no—he didn’t.
"You had this planned," I accused, standing so fast my chair scraped against the floor. "You knew I’d sign, and you had a dress ready. That’s psychotic, even for you."
He smirked. "I like to be prepared."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You’re insane."
"And you’re late," he countered, checking his watch. "Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes."
I gaped at him. "You expect me to just… put this on and waltz into a wedding like it’s a dentist appointment?"
"Yes."
I threw up my hands. "You can’t be serious!"
Dante stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between us. "You signed the contract, Emilia," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "That means you belong to me now. And I don’t like waiting."
A shiver ran down my spine, equal parts fury and something I refused to acknowledge.
I wanted to fight. I wanted to throw the dress in his face and tell him to go to hell. But the truth was, I’d already lost. The moment I signed that contract, I’d sealed my fate.
So, with a glare that could have melted steel, I grabbed the dress and stormed out of the room.
The ceremony was over before I could fully process it.
One second, I was stepping into a sleek, black car, Dante’s presence looming beside me. The next, I was standing in front of a judge, muttering vows that felt more like a hostage negotiation than a declaration of love.
There were no flowers, no music, no guests. Just a few legal witnesses, a cold exchange of rings, and Dante’s hand firm against the small of my back as he murmured, "Say ‘I do,’ princess."
I said it.
And just like that, I was Emilia Conti.
The car ride back was silent.
I stared out the window, my stomach twisting into knots as the city blurred past. My hands clenched in my lap, the weight of the ring on my finger heavier than I expected.
Dante, of course, was perfectly at ease. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, like he hadn’t just dragged me into a marriage I never wanted.
When we pulled up to the building where his penthouse was located -his house—our house, apparently—I didn’t move.
"Out," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
I turned to him, my nails digging into my palms. "You’re actually taking me here?"
His brow furrowed. "Where else would you go?"
I let out a hollow laugh. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe my home?"
Dante’s expression darkened. "You don’t have a home anymore, Emilia."
My breath caught in my throat.
"You live here now," he continued, his tone calm, almost gentle. "And you’re not leaving until you tell me where the twenty million is."
I stared at him, my pulse hammering in my ears.
There it was. The real reason for all of this.
"You son of a bitch," I whispered.
His lips twitched. "We’re married now, princess. You’ll have to come up with something more creative than that."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. But most of all, I wanted to run.
Because for the first time since this nightmare started, I realized something terrifying.
This wasn’t just a marriage.
It was a sentence—and I was the prisoner.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I sat frozen in the passenger seat, my fingers curled so tightly around the fabric of my dress that my knuckles ached. Dante, of course, was the picture of calm—one hand still resting lazily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gear shift like he had all the time in the world.
Like he hadn’t just ripped my life out from under me and called it a wedding.
"You’re quiet," he observed, his voice smooth, almost amused. "Not having second thoughts already, are you?"
I turned my head slowly, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, I don’t know, Dante. I think the second thoughts came somewhere between you blackmailing my father and shoving a wedding dress in my face."
His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. "You could’ve said no."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. And then what? You’d have let me walk away? Somehow, I doubt that."
Dante didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth was already there, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
I was never walking away.
Not from this.
Not from him.
The weight of it settled over me, cold and final. I turned back toward the window, my reflection staring back at me in the glass—wide eyes, tense jaw, a woman who barely recognized herself anymore.
I swallowed hard. "So, what now?"
Dante shifted in his seat, finally reaching for the door handle. "Now," he said, stepping out of the car, "we go inside."
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t.
Because stepping out of this car meant stepping into a life I hadn’t chosen. A life that belonged to him now.
Dante didn’t wait for me. Of course, he didn’t. He rounded the front of the car with slow, measured steps, opening my door like he was doing me some grand favor.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
"Emilia," he murmured, his voice low, warning. "Don’t make me carry you."
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt, but I moved. One foot in front of the other, out of the car, past him, into the building where my fate had already been sealed.
The lobby screamed wealth: polished marble floors, towering ceilings, every inch designed to intimidate. The doorman nodded at Dante with the kind of deference that made my stomach twist.
This was his world.
And now, it was mine.
The elevator ride was silent, tension crackling between us. I stared at the glowing numbers, each one climbing higher, carrying me deeper into his world.
When the doors finally slid open, I hesitated.
Dante didn’t.
He stepped out, unlocking the penthouse door with an ease that sent another shiver down my spine.
I followed.
Because what choice did I have?
The penthouse was exactly what I remembered—immaculate, every inch of it designed for function over comfort. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, the lights stretching out like a sea of stars.
It should have been beautiful.
Instead, it felt like a cage.
Dante shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair before turning to face me. "Make yourself at home."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Because that’s exactly what this feels like."
He didn’t react. He just watched me, his dark eyes unreadable. "You’ll get used to it."
I met his gaze, my pulse thrumming in my ears. "And if I don’t?"
Dante stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the space between us was nothing more than a breath. "Then you’ll pretend."
I hated the way my body reacted to him—the way my pulse betrayed me, the way my breath hitched despite the fury burning in my chest.
I hated him.
And I hated myself more for the part of me that still wanted to fight him, to push him, to see just how far I could go before he snapped.
I lifted my chin. "You think you own me now?"
Dante’s smirk was slow, dangerous. "I don’t think, princess. I know."
His hand lifted, fingers brushing against my jaw, tilting my face up just enough to force me to meet his gaze.
"You signed the contract," he murmured, his voice like silk and steel. "You said the vows."
His thumb traced the curve of my cheek, almost gentle.
"You belong “You’re mine now, Emilia. Every breath, every step—it all belongs to me .”
I swallowed hard, my nails digging into my palms. "You’re delusional."
Dante chuckled, low and dark. "Maybe."
His hand dropped, and just like that, the moment was gone.
"Your room is down the hall," he said, turning away like he hadn’t just shattered my last shred of control. "Get some rest."
I didn’t move.
I didn’t trust myself to.
Because for all my anger, for all my hatred…
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from him—or if I wanted to push him further, just to see how far he’d go to prove I was his.