Chapter Eight #2
He moved closer, closing the distance between us with those deliberate steps. His suit was charcoal today -- perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed, probably worth more than the dress I was wearing. He looked like money and power and control, and I hated how much my body responded to all three.
“I’ll say it once more, Caterina.” He stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne -- something dark and expensive that made me think of cedar and bad decisions. “Change. Now.”
“And I’ll say it clearly.” I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes. “No.”
The word hung between us for three heartbeats. I watched something shift in his expression -- not anger, not frustration, something colder and more calculating.
Then he moved to the door and called out to the hallway. “Leave us. Everyone off this floor for the next hour.”
I heard footsteps retreating, doors closing, the soft ding of the elevator being called. Within thirty seconds, the penthouse had gone silent except for the sound of my own breathing.
Dante closed the bedroom door and turned back to me.
“You want to test me?” He began unbuttoning his cuffs with precise movements, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. “Fine. Let’s establish exactly what happens when you disobey.”
My pulse kicked up. I forced myself to stay still, to not back away even as he approached. “I’m wearing a dress. That’s not a crime.”
“It’s defiance.” He reached out and traced one finger along the plunging neckline, the touch light enough to be almost casual. Almost. “You’re wearing this to provoke me. To test the boundaries of what I’ll tolerate. So let me be very clear about those boundaries.”
His hand moved to my shoulder, his fingers warm against my skin. Then he found the zipper at the back of the dress and began pulling it down with methodical precision.
“Don’t…” I grabbed his wrist, but he didn’t stop.
“You had your chance to change.” The zipper reached the small of my back and he pushed the dress off my shoulders. Gravity did the rest, the red fabric pooling at my feet in an expensive puddle. “Now I’m changing you.”
I stood there in just my La Perla lingerie -- black lace that cost a fortune and covered almost nothing -- and felt heat flood my face. Not embarrassment. Rage. But underneath the rage was something else, something that made my breath catch when Dante’s gaze traveled over my exposed skin.
He moved to the chair in the sitting room through the archway where he’d left the conservative outfit, gathering the cream blouse and navy trousers. Returned to me with the same measured steps.
“Arms up.”
“Fuck you.”
“Arms. Up.” He waited, the blouse hanging from one hand. “Or I dress you without your cooperation. Your choice.”
I lifted my arms, hating myself for the compliance but hating the alternative more. He slipped the blouse over my head with surprising gentleness, his fingers brushing my skin as he guided my arms through the sleeves. Then he began buttoning it from midway to the top.
The trousers came next. He kneeled to help me step into them -- like I was a child who couldn’t dress herself -- then pulled them up and fastened the clasp at my waist.
When he was finished, I looked exactly like the dutiful wife he’d intended. Conservative. Modest. Controlled.
“There.” He stepped back to admire his work. “Much better.”
The rage in my chest had crystallized into something sharp and cold. I met his gaze and saw satisfaction there, the kind that came from proving a point.
“Test me again,” he said quietly, “and the punishment won’t be so gentle.”
He left without another word, his footsteps retreating down the hallway until I heard his office door close.
I stood alone in the cream blouse and navy trousers and felt the full weight of my new reality settle over me.
This wasn’t negotiation. It wasn’t compromise.
This was exactly what he’d said it would be -- his control, his rules, his absolute authority over every aspect of my life when I was under his roof.
I moved through the rest of the morning in a daze, exploring the penthouse now that the staff had returned.
Everything was precise, controlled, without a single element out of place.
The kitchen was stocked with food I hadn’t chosen.
The living room furniture was positioned at exact angles.
Even the books on the shelves were organized by height and color.
Dante’s office door remained closed, but I heard him on occasional phone calls -- his voice low, discussing things I couldn’t quite make out.
I found the gym on the lower level of the penthouse -- weights and machines and a view that would have been impressive if I’d had permission to use any of it. The pool on the roof terrace sparkled in the midday sun, water so blue it looked artificial.
Everything beautiful. Everything forbidden.
It was when I was examining a locked door near Dante’s office that I noticed the camera. Small, discreet, mounted in the corner where the wall met the ceiling. I turned slowly, scanning the space, and found two more -- one covering the hallway, one pointed at the elevator.
I moved through the penthouse with new awareness, cataloging surveillance. Cameras in the living room. Cameras in the hallway. None in my bedroom, but one positioned to capture anyone entering or leaving.
The only other spaces without visible cameras were outside Dante’s office and his bedroom. The master suite. Off-limits unless he invited me in.
I ended up back in my room by late afternoon, curled on the chaise with a book I couldn’t focus on. The cream blouse felt like a collar. The navy trousers felt like shackles.
I’d spent the morning exploring my cage. Now I understood exactly how small it really was.