Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Valentina
With chin up and my emotional barriers firmly in place, I coldly meet his gaze in the mirror.
Is this what he thinks my life is going to be like? Does he imagine that he gets to consume my every waking moment, dress me, decide when I eat, when I sleep?
The questions coil through me like the silk still clinging to my skin, warm from his hands, still humming with the echo of his fingers on my nipple.
I stand frozen on the platform even after he steps away. The mirrors reflect back a thousand versions of me—flushed, lips parted and swollen, breasts rising too fast against the bodice he chose.
My nipple throbs in slow, heavy pulses that travel straight down, tightening everything low and slick between my thighs. Honestly I want to hate him for what he’s intentionally doing to me.
But my traitorous body refuses the memo, clenching around nothing, aching for the very man who just proved how easily he can unravel me.
Unblinkingly he studies my expression, his dark eyes unreadable.
The air between us is supercharged, thicker than the Houston humidity pressing against the boutique windows.
Damn it. Damn him.
Randy clears his throat from the doorway, professional mask firmly in place, but his eyes flick between us with knowing discretion. “We’ll have the gown ready for final fitting next week, Mr. Moretti.”
Severing our connection, Moretti turns. “We’ll need it tomorrow morning.”
“I see.” Randy nods. “In that case, let me call our alterations specialist in.”
A few moments later, the man joins us.
Finally, when all the pins are in place, a clerk joins us, and she helps me out of the gown.
A few minutes later, wearing the plum-colored dress Moretti decreed this morning, feeling more in charge, I return to him.
I don’t know what I hope for next.
Certainly not returning to his bedroom. But I don’t want to spend more time with him.
When I emerge, he’s waiting, suit jacket buttoned, expression composed like he hadn’t just had his hand inside my wedding dress.
Standing, he offers his arm, as if he truly is an attentive groom-to-be. “Shall we?”
I smile politely at Randy as we leave the boutique.
Moretti’s man—tall, silent, built like a wall—checks outside before nodding at us to proceed to the SUV.
The car door opens before I reach it.
Moretti’s hand settles at the small of my back again, guiding, possessive, and heat flares fresh under my skin.
I slide across the leather, the seam of my dress riding up just enough to remind me how wet I still am.
He follows, close enough that his knee brushes mine, and the contact jolts straight to my core.
The SUV merges into late-morning traffic, the city of Houston unfolding beyond the tinted windows in flashes of mirrored skyscrapers and sunlit glass.
Downtown gleams under a pale blue sky, the streets alive with movement, but inside the car, the air feels strangely insulated—quiet, close, charged with the lingering tension from the boutique.
Neither of us speaks.
It isn’t the comfortable kind of silence that settles between people who know each other well. This feels deliberate, almost strategic, as though every unsaid word is another move in the strange game we’ve been playing since he stole me from my life.
Dante Moretti sits beside me with the quiet confidence of a man who believes the outcome is already decided. One arm rests along the back of the seat behind me, his broad shoulders relaxed in a way that suggests control rather than ease.
Every so often, his gaze flicks in my direction, dark and measuring, as if cataloguing every reaction I try—and fail—to hide.
Infuriating man.
My pulse still hasn’t settled from the boutique.
From the way his hand moved beneath the silk of that dress.
From the way my body reacted like it had momentarily forgotten which side of this twisted arrangement I’m supposed to be on.
I fold my hands carefully in my lap, forcing composure into every inch of my posture.
If Dante Moretti thinks he’s rattled me, he’s about to be disappointed.
The SUV slows. Then the driver pulls to a stop beneath the sweeping portico of a gleaming marble building whose facade I recognize immediately.
Of course.
A discreet plaque beside the entrance catches the sunlight—polished gold lettering engraved into black stone.
Boucheron Privé.
Exclusive. Invitation only. The kind of jeweler where diamonds are presented like museum pieces and fortunes change hands over a glass of champagne.
The kind of place where a man like Dante Moretti shops.
I let out a slow breath.
This isn’t about anything other than him proving I’m his possession.
The guard steps forward and opens the door.
Moretti exits first, then turns and offers me his hand.
The gesture is absurdly civilized considering the circumstances… That we are kidnapper and captive, and he’s my unwanted, future husband.
I ignore his hand and step out on my own.
His mouth curves faintly, as though my refusal is exactly the response he expected.
Inside, the boutique feels less like a store and more like a private gallery curated for billionaires.
Soft golden light spills from recessed fixtures above long glass display cases that stretch along the walls like illuminated treasure chests. Diamonds glitter across velvet trays—emerald cuts, cushions, radiant stones that fracture the light into a thousand shards each time the air shifts.
The room smells faintly of polished wood and white orchids, the sort of understated luxury designed to remind clients that everything here is rare. Exclusive. Untouchable to anyone who isn’t wealthy enough to belong.
A man in a charcoal suit approaches immediately, his smile polished and practiced.
“Mr. Moretti. We’ve been expecting you.”
Of course they have.
Men like Dante Moretti don’t browse jewelry stores.
They visit for a purpose.
Moretti inclines his head slightly.
“We’re here for an engagement ring.”
The jeweler’s attention shifts to me.
His gaze sweeps over me with professional precision—taking in the dress, the posture, the unmistakable tension humming in the space between Moretti and me.
He’s trying to decide what kind of woman ends up engaged to a man like Dante Moretti.
“Congratulations.”
I say nothing.
Moretti’s hand settles once more at the small of my back.
Warm.
Possessive.
The touch sends an unwelcome ripple along my spine.
“We’ll use the private salon,” the jeweler says smoothly.
Moments later, we’re seated in a secluded room lined with velvet display tables.
One tray after another appears before us, each containing diamonds large enough to blind a room—emerald cuts the size of ice cubes, oval stones glowing like captured starlight, radiant diamonds that look as though they belong in royal collections rather than on someone’s finger.
The display looks less like jewelry and more like a fortune laid out on velvet.
Each one is more obscene than the last.
“Try them,” Moretti says quietly.
“I’m not trying on rings for a marriage I didn’t agree to.”
His gaze lifts.
Dark. Intent. Unyielding.
“Valentina.”
Just my name.
Low and controlled. A warning disguised as patience.
I reach for the first ring.
Not because he ordered it.
Because I refuse to let him see my hesitation.
The diamond slides onto my finger.
It’s a ridiculously large, and it looks cold. Like my future husband’s eyes.
“What do you think?” the jeweler asks.
I lift my hand toward the light.
The stone explodes into brilliance.
“It’s too big.”
The man blinks.
Moretti exhales. “You prefer something smaller?”
“You know what I prefer.”
Warning flickers in his eyes.
Clearing his throat slightly, the jeweler takes a careful step back.
Moretti reaches across the table and takes my hand.
His fingers close around mine with quiet certainty, as though my resistance is merely a temporary inconvenience.
Slowly he brushes his thumb across my finger.
“You will wear my ring,” he says softly. “This is not negotiable.”