The camera flash exploded again, temporarily blinding me. Instinctively, I tried to cover myself with the sheet, but the movement only made things worse—the handcuffs rattled loudly, drawing even more attention to our compromising situation.
"Get out of here!" I shouted, my voice higher than I intended. "You have no right to come in like that!"
Melissa stepped forward, her red Louboutin heels echoing on the marble floor. She looked impeccable, as always—perfectly brushed blonde hair, flawless makeup, a white Chanel dress that probably cost more than my car. The irony of the color wasn't lost on me.
"Oh, honey," she sighed with mock concern, placing a hand on her chest in a theatrical gesture. "We don't need permission. This room is registered to Ricardo. He gave me the spare key this morning. He was so worried about you."
I felt bile rise in my throat. "Worried? WORRIED?" He cheated on me with you!
"Technically," Melissa examined her perfectly manicured nails, her voice dripping with venom disguised as honey, "you're the one in a hotel bed with a stranger. Ricardo and I just talked in the garden. You, on the other hand..."
The photographer moved to capture another angle. Flash. Flash. Flash. Each shot felt like a gunshot.
"Enough." Dante's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade.
Everyone froze. There was something in his tone—low, controlled, but charged with an authority that brooked no question. He sat up straight on the bed, unfazed by his lack of clothing, his abdominal muscles contracting with the movement.
The security guards instinctively took a step back.
"You have exactly five seconds to leave this room," Dante continued, those green eyes now icy as jade. "Or I guarantee each of you will face lawsuits that will ruin your lives for the next ten years." "You can't threaten us," Melissa retorted, but there was a crack in her confidence.
Dante smiled. It wasn't gentle at all.
"Want to bet?" He tilted his head, studying her like a scientist would a cockroach. "Melissa Cardoso, daughter of Rodrigo Cardoso, owner of Cardoso Importações. A company that, coincidentally, depends on financing from the Central Bank for its operations. Financing that I can make disappear with a phone call."
Melissa's face paled. "You wouldn't do that."
"Test me."
The silence in the room was deafening. I could hear my rapid breathing, the distant hum of the air conditioning, the muffled beep of the elevator in the hallway.
Melissa looked at the security guards, then at the photographer. The latter was already quickly putting away his camera, clearly wanting to disappear.
"This isn't over, Isabella," she hissed, turning to me with pure hatred in her eyes. "You always thought you were better than everyone else." The perfect little princess. But now the whole world will see who you really are.
"Four seconds," Dante said calmly.
Melissa turned on her heel and left, the security guards and the photographer chasing after her. The door slammed shut with enough force to make the chandelier tremble.
I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Each beat echoed a thought: ruined, ruined, ruined.
"Where's the key?" Dante's voice brought me back.
I opened my eyes. He was watching me with that unreadable expression again, as if he were solving a complex equation.
"I... I don't know," I admitted, my voice small. "I don't remember hiding anything."
He sighed, running his free hand through his messy dark hair. The movement exposed more of the tattoo on his shoulder—I realized now that it was Norse runes intertwined with something that looked like a wolf.
"Try to remember," he persisted, without impatience, just determination. "You said something about making this 'fair.' That if we were bound to each other metaphorically, we should be bound literally too." I was very philosophical for someone completely drunk.
A vague memory flickered in my mind. Laughing. Twirling something small and golden between my fingers. Looking around the room. Where would a drunk woman hide something small?
My gaze fell on the ornate lampshade on the bedside table. It was an antique, with a hand-painted porcelain base and a silk shade. At the top of the base was a small, decorative opening.
"There," I pointed. "I think I put it inside the lamp."
Dante reached out, the handcuff pulling my wrist with him. He turned the lamp base, and after a few shakes, a small, golden key fell onto the sheet.
"Thank God." I breathed a sigh of relief. He took the key and, in seconds, freed first my wrist, then his. I massaged the reddened skin where the metal had pressed, feeling the circulation painfully return.
Dante stood, completely unconcerned with the fact that he was wearing only black boxer briefs. He grabbed a white shirt thrown over an armchair and pulled it on with short strokes.
"Get dressed," he said, throwing on what appeared to be my red dress from the night before. "We need to talk."
"Talk?" I repeated, incredulous. "There's nothing to talk about. This was a terrible mistake, but it's over. You can move on with your life, and I'll... I'll..."
"Manage the disaster?" He buttoned his shirt, those green eyes fixed on me. "Explain to your father how the family's reputation was destroyed? Deal with the clients who are canceling contracts right now?"
Every word was like a punch. Because he was right. Absolutely, devastatingly right.
"What do you want from me?" "I whispered, hugging the dress to my chest.
He finished buttoning his shirt and grabbed a pair of dress pants from the closet. Only then did I realize—this wasn't an ordinary hotel room. There were organized men's clothes, toiletries, even a few books on the shelf. It was a permanent suite.
"You live here?" I asked, diverting from the main topic because I wasn't ready to face him.
"I have a penthouse at this hotel. More convenient than an empty house," he replied, pulling on his pants. "And don't change the subject."
"I wasn't—"
"Isabella." The way he said my name stopped me. It wasn't aggressive. It was… intimate. Like he'd said it a thousand times before. "You have two options now. You can go home, face your family, try to do damage control, and watch as everything falls apart. Or…"
"Or?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
He walked until he was just inches away from me. He was tall—he must have been over six feet—and I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. Up close, I could see tiny golden specks in the green of his irises, like stars in a forest.
"Or you marry me," he said simply.
I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was so absurd that the only possible reaction was laughter.
"You're crazy. Completely crazy. I don't even know your full name!"
"Dante Moretti," he replied, humorlessly. "Thirty-two years old. CEO of Moretti Enterprises. Net worth estimated at three billion dollars. No addictions, no illnesses, no children. And I'm completely serious about marriage."
I stopped laughing. "Why? That doesn't make sense. Why would you want to marry a complete stranger?"
"Because"—he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper—"you interest me. And because, whether you want to admit it or not, I'm your only way out of this disaster."
"That's ridiculous—"
"It's practical," he corrected. "Think about it. If you come home single, you're a woman who cheated on her fiancé in a moment of weakness. Your name becomes synonymous with scandal. Your family suffers." The family business loses customers. Everything you built turns to ash.
Every word hurt because it was true.
"But," he continued, beginning to pace around me like a professor lecturing, "if you come back as my fiancée, the narrative changes completely. You didn't cheat on anyone. You found your true love. It was love at first sight. So overwhelming that you couldn't wait another day with the wrong man."
"No one will believe that," I argued weakly.
"Everyone will believe it," he countered. "Because I'll make them believe it. I'll give interviews. I'll post it on social media. I'll make all of high society know that Dante Moretti is completely in love with Isabella Torres and that it was love at first sight."
"But it wasn't," I whispered.
He stopped in front of me again. There was something in his eyes now, something intense that made my stomach churn.
"It wasn't?" he murmured, so softly I almost didn't hear it.
Before I could process what was happening, my phone exploded in a cacophony of ringtones and notifications. With trembling hands, I picked it up.
What I saw made my blood run cold.
The photos of Melissa and the photographer were already online. Not just online—viral. Trending on Twitter. Headlines on all the major gossip sites. Analysis videos on TikTok. Memes on Instagram.
"Torres Heiress in Sex Scandal with Billionaire" "Isabella Torres Cheats on Fiancé with Mysterious CEO" "Love or Betrayal? The Photos that Shock High Society"
And worst of all: there was a photo of Ricardo, giving an interview in front of our house. His eyes were red, as if he'd been crying. He held a picture of us together, the perfect image of a betrayed and devastated man.
The caption quoted her as saying: "I loved her.We were planning to get married in three months. I never imagined she was capable of this. I am completely devastated."
"That hypocritical son of a—"
"Let me see." Dante took the phone from my hand and read it quickly. His expression didn't change, but something hardened in his jaw. "He's good. Really good. He's positioning himself as the victim before you can tell your side."
"My side?" I looked at him desperately. "What's my side? That I got drunk and slept handcuffed to a billionaire stranger? That's not exactly a convincing defense!"
"No," he agreed, handing the phone back. "But 'I fell in love with the man of my dreams and couldn't stay in a loveless relationship' is."
I looked at him, really looked, for the first time since I'd woken up. Dante Moretti wasn't just handsome—he was magnetic. There was an intensity about him, a presence that filled the space. And there was something else, something in his eyes when he looked at me, as if he knew secrets about me that even I didn't know.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked again, more softly. "Really."
He held my gaze for a long moment. Then, with a movement that seemed to cost him something, he held out his hand.
"Marry me, Isabella Torres. For one year. Save your reputation, your family, your life. And in the end, if you want to disappear and never see me again, I'll let you go. No questions, no conditions."
"And if I refuse?"
He didn't need to answer. We both knew what would happen. My phone started ringing again. It was my father. I looked at the screen, then at Dante, then back at the screen.
"How long do I have to decide?" I whispered.
"Until you answer this call," he replied. "Because what you tell him now will determine the rest of your life."
The phone continued ringing. My finger hovered over the answer button.
And then, with a movement I knew would change everything, I ended the call and looked at Dante. "We have a lot to discuss," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "Starting with the terms of this... agreement."
He smiled. This time, it reached his eyes.
"Smart," he murmured. "I knew you would be."
And as I grabbed my dress and headed to the bathroom to change, a single question echoed in my mind:
What the hell did I just agree to?