Chapter 5
Paola
Ilay rigid in the dark, every nerve ending on fire.
Cesare's hand remained on my hip—warm, heavy, possessive through the thin silk. A brand that burned without flame.
Sleep was impossible. My body refused to relax, couldn't even manage proper breathing. Each inhale felt shallow and controlled, like my lungs had forgotten their function.
His breathing had slowed—it was deep, even… possibly asleep. But I couldn't be certain. Couldn't risk moving, couldn't risk breaking whatever fragile détente we'd established in those final moments before silence.
The city lights filtered through the windows, casting geometric shadows across the ceiling. I traced them with my eyes, counting patterns, desperate for distraction.
It didn't work.
I was hyperaware of everything: the Egyptian cotton sheets against my skin, cool and impossibly smooth. The weight of the ring on my finger, foreign and inescapable. The scent of him—bergamot and something darker, leather maybe, surrounding me in this bed that was now supposedly ours.
His thumb had traced that circle on my hip bone. Such a small gesture. Such a devastating claim.
Sleep, Paola. While you still can.
The threat hung in my mind like smoke I couldn't wave away.
What was worse, that he’d had such an obvious effect on my body despite the position I was in? Or that I wanted it more than I was willing to admit?
One week. Seven days before he expected me to... before we...
My virginity had never been something I'd thought much about. I'd been waiting for the right person, the right moment. Love, maybe. Or at least genuine connection. Choice.
Not this. Not a forced marriage to a dangerous stranger who'd threatened me at the altar.
But my body didn't seem to care about circumstances. His touch, his proximity, the heat radiating from him—it was doing things to me I didn't want to acknowledge. Things I couldn't name in the darkness.
Shame and desire tangled together in my chest until I couldn't separate them.
*
I must have dozed eventually because I woke to sunlight streaming through those massive windows, turning the bedroom into something from an architectural magazine.
Day one of my forced marriage.
Less than twenty-four hours since I'd woken in that wedding dress, but it felt like a lifetime had passed.
I was alone in the bed. Cesare's side was empty, covers replaced with military precision. As if he’d never even been here.
Relief and disappointment warred in my chest. Relief won. Mostly.
I sat up, took in the bedroom properly for the first time.
Massive didn't begin to cover it—the space could have swallowed my old apartment twice over.
The king-sized bed was dark wood and chrome.
Modern furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable filled the space tastefully.
Another wall of windows with a view that would be breathtaking if I could appreciate it.
Central Park stretched out below, a green oasis surrounded by steel and glass. Beautiful. Unreachable.
My eyes swept over to the two doors: one leading to what looked like a walk-in closet, another to the bathroom.
Everything was expensive, masculine, impersonal. Like a luxury hotel, not a home. Was this really his bedroom? If it was, there was nothing I could learn about him here.
On the nightstand beside me was a glass of water I hadn't put there—Cesare must have—and a note.
I picked it up, vaguely recognized his handwriting from the marriage certificate. Bold, perfect penmanship, decisive:
Clothes in the closet. Breakfast in the kitchen. Don't leave the penthouse.
Not a request. A command.
The third sentence made my stomach twist. This was a prison, then. A gilded cage ninety floors above the city.
I wrapped myself in a silk robe I found draped over a chair—his, enormous on me, smelling of that bergamot scent—and ventured into the walk-in closet.
I stopped dead at what I found.
An entire section had been cleared for me. Racks of clothes, all in my size, still with tags attached. Designer labels I recognized from Bianca's closet: Valentino, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. Brands I could never afford on my gallery salary.
Dresses, pants, blouses, casual wear. Everything perfectly coordinated. Everything screaming wealth.
I opened drawers. Lingerie—silk, lace, nothing practical. All chosen with male appreciation in mind. Bras that pushed up, panties that barely existed, negligees meant for seduction. I felt a little constricted looking at it all but also… intrigued.
A wardrobe fit for a mafia wife. For Bianca.
Not for me.
The efficiency of it unsettled me. How quickly had he arranged this once he realized that I wouldn’t come with the necessary, appropriate accessories? How thoroughly had he provided for every possible need?
It was generosity and control wrapped together with a perfect bow. He was clothing me, yes, but in his choices. His taste. His world.
I grabbed the most casual things I could find: soft black leggings, an oversized cashmere sweater in charcoal gray. Underwear that was more comfortable than seductive—though even those had lace trim.
A small rebellion, but it was something.
The bathroom was another monument to wealth. Marble everywhere—walls, floors, countertops. The rain shower was large enough for three people. Separate soaking tub. Double vanity though only one side showed signs of use.
I took a long shower, trying to wash away yesterday. The church. The reception. The vows I'd never meant to say.
But the ring on my finger was waterproof. The marriage was real.
I found toiletries laid out on the unused vanity—expensive brands, feminine scents. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer. Everything I might need.
Again: generous and controlling at once.
I took my time in the bathroom, delaying the inevitable. But I couldn't hide forever.
When I finally emerged, dressed in the casual leggings and sweater I'd chosen, I spotted something I'd overlooked earlier.
My bag. The one from Bianca's apartment.
Someone had placed it on the chair near the closet. I grabbed it, heart pounding as I dug through—wallet, keys, lip gloss.
And my phone.
My hands shook as I plugged it into the charging cable on the nightstand. Thirty seconds felt like hours.
When the screen flickered to life, the breath left my lungs. They’d taken it, but not wiped it.
Anna: 52 missed calls.
Anna: 31 text messages.
I scrolled through with blurring vision:
Saturday 10:47 AM: Still on for coffee at noon?
Saturday 12:30 PM: Where are you?
Saturday 6:45 PM: I went by your apartment. Your neighbor hasn't seen you. CALL ME.
Sunday 11:47 AM: I'm filing a missing person report.
Sunday 2:15 PM: Your landlord let me in. You're not there. I'm getting freaked out, Paola, what’s going on?
Sunday 8:41 PM: I filed a police report. Please, please call me.
Anna thought I was missing. Dead, maybe. My best friend had searched hospitals, filed police reports.
I started typing with shaking fingers:
Anna, I'm okay. Something came up—
"What are you doing?"
I jerked my head up. Cesare stood in the doorway, already dressed, gray eyes locked onto the phone.
"Who are you texting?"
"My friend Anna. She filed a missing person report—"
"I know." He crossed the room, hand extended. "Give me the phone, Paola."
"No. I need to tell her I'm okay—"
"You can't contact anyone from your old life. The phone. Now."
"She thinks I'm dead!"
"And if you contact her, you put her in danger." His voice was firm. "Viktor has eyes everywhere. If he thinks your friend matters to you, he'll use her."
"Viktor doesn't even know—"
"Viktor knows everything about you. Everyone you care about." His jaw tightened. "Your father sold you to secure an alliance. Viktor wants to destroy it. If he discovers someone you love, someone unprotected—"
The threat hung between us.
I looked at the screen. At Anna's desperate messages.
"I need her to know I'm alive."
"She will. When it's safe." His voice softened slightly. "I'll have someone send messages from your phone. Brief texts. ‘Family emergency, had to leave town, phone's dying, will explain soon.’ Enough to stop the missing person investigation without raising more questions."
"She'll still worry—"
"Less than she's worrying now. And she'll be alive. That's what matters."
"You're going to impersonate me?"
"I'm going to keep you both alive. There's a difference."
Could I live with myself if something happened to Anna because of me?
I placed the phone in his hand.
He powered it down. "I'll handle it."
"Will she think I abandoned her?"
"She'll think you're wrapped up in newlywed bliss. It happens." He slipped it into his pocket. "Get some breakfast. We need to discuss ground rules."
He left, closing the door quietly.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space.
I'd lost my sister to betrayal. My freedom to forced marriage. My apartment, my job, my art.
And now I'd lost my best friend too.
I followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen.
It was as stunning as the rest of the penthouse: professional-grade appliances that belonged in a restaurant, marble countertops, another wall of windows overlooking the city.
Cesare sat at the kitchen island with an espresso and his laptop.
He was already dressed in tailored black pants, a crisp white dress shirt, no tie yet. Hair still slightly damp from his own shower. A Rolex caught the light on his wrist.
He looked alert despite what could only have been a few hours of sleep. Maybe four at most.
He looked up when I entered. Those gray eyes tracked over me—assessing my choice of clothes. I saw the flicker of recognition that I'd chosen the least provocative options available.
"Good morning," he said. Neutral. Polite. Like this was normal.
"Morning," I managed.
He gestured to the counter. "There's breakfast. Coffee. Help yourself."
I saw what he meant: a spread laid out like a hotel buffet. Pastries, fruit, yogurt, cheeses, cold cuts. Far too much for two people.