Chapter 8
Eight
Ilona
The morning sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting long golden fingers across a bed that swallows me whole.
For one disorienting moment, I don't know where I am. The ceiling is too high, the sheets too soft, the air scented with something warm and woody that tugs at memories I've been trying to bury. Then it all crashes back. The interview. The photos.
I raise my hand. The ring sits heavy on my finger, diamonds and rubies catching the morning light, reminding me of a promise I never intended to make.
I draw in a slow breath, hold it until my lungs ache, then release it in a controlled exhale. The trembling in my chest settles. Barely.
Today I become Mrs. Valentina.
I push myself upright and take in the guest room I claimed after spending all of yesterday exploring Luca's mansion.
The space is enormous, all dark wood and cream fabrics and windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
A fireplace dominates one wall, cold now but clearly functional, the marble mantle carved with vines and flowers that look almost alive in the shifting light.
The place isn’t what I expected.
I'd braced myself for something cold and sterile. The kind of modern minimalism rich men use to project power without personality. Chrome and glass and sharp angles designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
Instead, we drove through wrought iron gates marked with an elegant "V" in the middle of either side, and then I found myself staring at a Gilded Age mansion that looked like it had been plucked from another century.
Grey limestone walls. Black iron accents.
Gothic revival architecture that should have felt oppressive but somehow managed to feel like a sanctuary.
The interior surprised me even more. The first thing I noticed once my driver-slash-bodyguard opened the front door was the original hardwood floors.
They creaked beneath my exhausted feet the more I explored.
Then there were the coffered ceilings painted in deep colors.
And fireplaces in nearly every room, some with fires already crackling against the October chill.
And the library. My word… I caught a glimpse of it on my way to this guest room, and I was tempted to just stay there.
My chest tightens just thinking about the amount of time and money that must have gone into supplying all the copies of various books I saw.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with volumes that looked actually read rather than decoratively arranged.
The scent of sandalwood and old paper and leather bindings caught my attention too.
Luca actually spends time there and for some reason I don’t really want to explore right now, that warms my heart.
I imagine he loves the overstuffed chairs positioned near the windows.
They looked worn and well-used. It is a space designed for comfort and for losing yourself in stories.
I hate that I love it.
I hate that when I walked through these halls last night, exhausted and terrified and pregnant with a stranger's baby, some traitorous part of me whispered, You could be happy here.
Last night I left a grocery list on the kitchen counter before I came up to bed. Just three things in my looping black ink. Ginger candy. Saltines. The herbal tea Luna swears by for nausea. A small list, but it felt huge. The first time I've written down what I need without asking permission first.
A knock at my door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
My heart stutters. Is it him? Is he here to walk me through this day, to stand beside me as we sign our lives away to each other?
"Come in."
A woman in a crisp grey uniform enters carrying a garment bag and a small tray with tea and toast. Her smile is warm, professional, and entirely non-threatening.
Disappointment sinks through my chest like a stone dropped in still water. I hate that I wanted it to be him. Hate the hollow ache his absence leaves behind.
"Good morning, Mrs. Valentina."
Chills race down my spine and my heart thuds hard against my ribs. That name. His name. Wrapped around mine like a chain I never asked to wear.
"Mr. Valentina asked me to bring your dress for today's ceremony. He also requested I inform you that the car will be ready in two hours."
She lays the garment bag across the foot of my bed with careful reverence, sets the tray on the nightstand, and disappears before I can form a coherent response.
Mrs. Valentina. I'm not even married yet and the household already calls me by his name.
I stare at the garment bag for a long moment before curiosity wins over resentment.
The covers fall away as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet finding the cool hardwood.
I strip out of the pajamas I found yesterday in Luca's closet, exactly where he said they would be.
Soft cotton in pale blue, tags still attached, purchased for a wife he hadn't yet claimed.
I'd taken the pajamas but refused the room.
This guest room, three doors down from his, was the one small act of control I could cling to.
A tiny rebellion in a life suddenly stripped of choices.
I leave the discarded pajamas folded on the edge of the bed and cross to the garment bag.
The zipper parts to reveal white silk that catches the morning light like captured moonbeams. Simple but stunning. A sheath dress that will skim my curves without clinging, with delicate lace at the neckline and a hem that falls just below my knees.
No train. No veil. No fantasy of a fairy tale wedding.
But it's beautiful. Exactly the kind of dress I would have chosen for myself if I'd been given the choice.
Another thing I hate how much I love it.
Two hours later, I stand in a courthouse that smells like old paper and institutional coffee, wearing a dress that fits like it was sewn onto my body and shoes that Luca apparently had custom made because of course he did.
My hair is loose around my shoulders, the blue tips on display for the first time in months.
Luna helped me get ready via video call, her grey eyes soft with concern even as she assured me I looked gorgeous.
The ceremony takes less than fifteen minutes.
A judge with kind eyes and a perfunctory manner. Drake and Katriana, whom I just met, stand as witnesses on one side. Kon, another brother I just met, is a silent mountain on the other.
There’s no music. No flowers. No walking down an aisle toward a future I chose.
Just words and signatures and the cold finality of law.
"Do you, Luca Valentina, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
His answer comes without hesitation. No pause. No flicker of doubt. Just two words delivered with the weight of an oath sworn in blood.
"I do."
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach flip. He says it like he means it. Like this isn't a trap he set or a contract he's enforcing. Like he's been waiting his whole life to speak those words to me.
The judge turns to me.
"Do you, Ilona Marchetti, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I look at Luca. Really look at him, past the expensive suit and the commanding presence and the infuriating arrogance that got us here. Past the blackmail and the lies and the trap closing around me.
He stands perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
Long hair pulled back with that damn leather cord I want to pluck from his hair just to see all those waves tumble loose.
His beard is trimmed close to his jaw. Ink I've traced with my fingers and tongue peeks out from his collar.
And there on his right hand, the viper coils across his skin, ruby eyes glinting in the fluorescent light.
My mystery man. My one perfect night. And now my captor.
My husband.
"I do."
The words weigh heavy on my heart. Surrender and defiance all at once. Surrender to a husband. Defiance of a controlling parent.
His smile is small, private, meant only for me. And when the judge pronounces us married, when Luca cups my face in those dangerous hands and leans in to seal the vow with a kiss, I expect demand. Possession. A claiming that matches the possessive edge in his voice when he called me his.
Instead, his lips brush mine, barely there, a whisper of warmth against my mouth.
Soft. Searching. The gentle pressure sends a flush of warmth spreading across my cheeks, down my neck, blooming beneath the silk of my dress.
My breath catches in my throat. My fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket without permission, anchoring myself against the sudden weakness in my knees.
He deepens the kiss slowly, his mouth moving against mine with a patience that unravels me.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, a gentle request, and I open for him without thinking.
He tastes like mint and something darker, richer, and the familiarity of it drags me back to that first night.
Before I knew who he was. Before everything became complicated and cruel.
His hand slides to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head to change the angle.
The other palm presses flat against my lower back, drawing me closer until there's no space left between us.
He kisses me like we have all the time in the world.
Like the courthouse and the witnesses and the paperwork don't exist. Like I'm the only thing that matters.
Reverent. Unhurried.
He makes me feel like I'm something precious he's afraid of breaking. Chills race down my spine even as heat pools low in my belly. My body can't decide if it wants to run from this man or climb him like a tree.
Nothing like a blackmailer.
Everything like the man I've been dreaming about for eight weeks.