Chapter 2 #4
I study everything quietly through the tinted glass.
The estate is a vast, imposing fortress—a modern, slate-and-glass mansion surrounded by manicured grounds that offer zero blind spots.
Everywhere I look, guards move with disciplined, military precision.
They don't linger or chat; their eyes scan the perimeter constantly.
And the way they look at Dominic... it isn't just standard professional courtesy. It's bone-deep respect, layered with a very healthy dose of fear.
Dominic kills the engine in the circular driveway, gets out, and opens my door. I step into the crisp morning air, keeping my posture rigid as I follow him up the wide granite steps.
When he pushes the heavy glass-and-steel front doors open, two people are already standing waiting in the grand foyer.
"Rosalia," Dominic's rough voice cuts through the quiet house as he gestures to them. "These are Helena and Keane. Helena is the live-in house manager, and Keane is my second-in-command.”
I take them in instantly.
Helen is an elegant woman in her mid-thirties, her dark auburn hair pinned back into a neat, practical chignon.
She wears a tailored linen outfit, and her sharp brown eyes take me in with a warm, welcoming smile that feels entirely out of place in a captor’s home—a warmth that immediately makes me lower my guard and then instantly double my caution.
Keane stands beside her. He is tall, lean, and athletic, built with a military-sharp posture. He has close-cropped brown hair, hard green eyes, and an observant, deeply controlled expression. He looks like a man who calculates threat levels before he even says hello.
"Welcome to the estate, Miss Caruso," Helen says softly, her tone surprisingly gentle. "Anything you need, you only have to ask. I’m here to make sure you’re comfortable."
"Thank you." I force a polite, distant smile in her direction, keeping my guard up.
Keane simply gives me a single, crisp nod. "Ma'am."
Dominic clears his throat, the low rumble breaking the brief pleasantry. "I'll show you to your room," he says flatly.
I give a brief nod to Helen and Keane before following Dominic up the grand, winding staircase.
We turn down a long, quiet wing on the second floor and pass through a set of heavy double doors into a sprawling master suite.
We walk through a private living area, past a sleek fireplace, and into a massive bedroom.
The moment my heels sink into the plush carpet, I freeze.
The room is dark, sophisticated, and distinctly lived-in.
Heavy charcoal linens dress the king-sized bed.
A leather watch box sits on the dressers alongside a crystal decanter of bourbon and a heavy, familiar bottle of cologne—the exact cedarwood and tobacco scent that has been tormenting my senses since last night.
A sudden spike of panic and absolute outrage hits me. I whirl around to face him, blocking the doorway.
"Is this my room, or is this your room?" I demand, my hands clenching into tight fists at my sides.
Dominic frowns at me, raising an eyebrow as if I've entirely lost my mind. "It’s our room," he says casually, unbuttoning the top button of his collared shirt. "We’ll share it."
"I won't," I snap, the sharp edge in my voice ringing off the stone walls. "I am not sharing a bed with you."
"You are my fiancée, Rosalia, and this is my house," Dominic replies, his tone taking on a dangerously calm, unyielding register. He steps into the bedroom, completely ignoring my protest as he tosses his jacket onto a chair. "You sleep here."
"I said no!" My chest heaves with furious, burning rage.
It is happening all over again. Another room, another fortress, another arrogant man standing over me and deciding where I belong without my consent.
I spent a decade being told where to sleep, where to stand, and how to breathe by a man who claimed he owned me, and I would rather rot in a cell than immediately surrender to another master.
"I don't care what deal you made with my father," I spit out, stepping right into his path, refusing to back down an inch. "You don't get to order me around, and you damn sure don't get to dictate where I put my head at night!"
Dominic stops, towering over me, his hard dark eyes narrowing as he looks down into my furious face. He doesn't soften the order. He doesn't offer a single comforting lie.
"You're in my world now, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice smooth, dark, and utterly immovable. "And in my world, you stay where I can see you."
I open my mouth to tear into him, to scream at him until my lungs burn, but Dominic cuts me off before a single word can escape my lips.
"You either do this the easy way or the hard way," he says, his voice flat, dangerously calm, and entirely devoid of patience. "But the end result is the exact same. You sleep here."
He doesn't wait for a response. Turning his back on me, he walks over to the heavy mahogany dresser, picks up the crystal decanter, and pours two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy glass.
He knocks the drink back in a single, smooth motion, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he sets it down.
"I'll give you some time to adjust," he murmurs, shooting me one last, unreadable look from those hard, dark eyes.
Without another word, he turns and walks out of the suite, closing the heavy oak doors with a quiet, decisive click that echoes through the silence.
The moment the lock engages, the remaining strength drains out of my legs. My knees give way, and I crumple backward onto the edge of the plush, king-sized bed, burying my face in my hands as the suffocating weight of my reality crashes down on me all over again.