Three days passed.
Three days of silence.
Of pacing her room.
Of staring at the ring he left on her nightstand, untouched, but never moved.
Luciano hadn't asked again.
Hadn't pressed.
But he didn't need to.
The weight of the question hung in the halls like smoke.
Will you marry me?
Amethyst didn't know what scared her more — the thought of saying yes… or the fact that part of her already had.
So when the knock came that morning — soft, feminine, unfamiliar — she opened the door cautiously.
A woman in black stood there. Polished. Elegant. Sharp as a scalpel.
"The don has arranged for your first fitting," she said, tone clipped. "The tailor is waiting."
Amethyst blinked. "Fitting?"
"For your dress," the woman said simply, already turning. "He said you'd come when you were ready. I assume your presence means you are."
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Her feet moved anyway.
The room she was led to was stunning — vaulted ceilings, soft lighting, mirrors in every direction. And in the center: three gowns. White. Ivory. Champagne. Each one a different kind of trap.
One was silk and sleek, like a dagger hidden beneath a kiss.
One was lace and soft and lying.
The third shimmered like moonlight — dangerous in its beauty, bold in its shape, backless and dripping with delicate silver beading.
That one spoke to her.
Not the girl she used to be.
The woman he wanted her to become.
"Try it," the woman said, nodding. "He chose it."
Of course he did.
She slipped into it behind a screen, heart hammering. The fabric slid against her skin like temptation. Like surrender. She stepped out and turned to the mirror—
And saw herself.
Not as a victim.
Not as a prisoner.
As his.
The reflection wasn't frightened anymore. She was fierce. Controlled. Regal. Beautiful and untouchable.
Just like him.
A sound behind her made her freeze.
Luciano.
Leaning against the doorframe, watching her like she was the most dangerous thing in the room.
"You shouldn't be in here," she said quietly.
"I built this room," he replied. "I'll go where I please."
His gaze traced the gown over her curves, slow and scorching. "I told them you'd choose that one."
"Because you control everything?" she muttered.
"No," he said, stepping closer. "Because I understand you."
She turned to him, arms crossed. "Why me, Luciano? Why not some mafia princess who already knows how to play this game?"
"Because they play the game," he said. "You change it."
Their eyes locked.
"I don't want to be owned," she said.
"Then don't be," he whispered. "Own me instead."
It wasn't a command.
It wasn't a threat.
It was the closest thing to vulnerability he'd ever given her.
And it shattered something inside her.
She stepped toward him — slow, deliberate — the gown rustling like secrets. Her hand lifted, fingers brushing the cut that had healed on his cheek.
"You terrify me," she whispered.
"Good," he breathed, leaning in.
She kissed him.
This time, she was the one who started it.
No fear.
No surrender.
Just fire.
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer like he needed her to breathe. Her fingers tangled in his hair, lips pressed to his like she could draw answers from his mouth. The world spun, hot and electric, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
When they broke apart, he leaned his forehead against hers.
"Say yes," he whispered.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't let go either.