Dante's Maserati glided through the city streets with the ease of no one in the world but the two of us. He drove with the same controlled precision with which he handled everything—short movements, smooth gear changes, no wasted gestures. I was in the passenger seat, clutching my phone like it was a bomb about to explode.
"Breathe," Dante said without taking his eyes off the road. "Your father will be fine."
"You don't know that."
"I know." He dodged a reckless taxi without even blinking. "Santa Cruz Hospital has the best cardiac department in the city. If his blood pressure rose, he's in the best possible place."
"How do you know which hospital he went to?"
"Because I called while you were in the bathroom getting ready." He finally glanced at me. "I spoke with the administration. Your father is in the VIP ward. He's stable. He's being monitored, but it's not serious." Relief hit me like a wave, but along with it came irritation. "You had no right to do that without telling me."
"You did. You were panicking. Someone needed to take control." His voice was matter-of-fact, unapologetic. "And now you know he's okay. So breathe."
I hated that he was right. I hated even more that his efficiency made me feel safe.
My phone vibrated again. More messages. I ignored them all except a new one from my mother:
"I just saw the news. Are you coming with HIM? Isabella Sofia, what's going on?"
"My mother knows I'm going with you," I observed.
"Paparazzi photographed us leaving the hotel." He nodded to the rearview mirror. "We've had three cars following us since we left."
I turned around, and sure enough, there were cameras trained on us from several vehicles. My stomach churned.
"Is this my life now? Being chased by photographers?"
"For a few weeks, yes." He took my hand with the one not on the steering wheel, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Then it becomes normal. Boring. They'll find the next scandal."
"You seem very calm about it."
"I grew up with it." There was something bitter in his tone. "When you're the son of 'Marco Moretti, the Billionaire Womanizer,' you learn to deal with paparazzi before you learn to tie your shoes."
It was the first time he'd mentioned his father so truthfully. I wanted to ask more, but we reached the hospital before I could.
Santa Cruz Hospital was imposing—glass and steel, perfectly manicured gardens, valets in impeccable uniforms. Dante handed over the keys without hesitation, then placed his hand on my back, guiding me toward the entrance.
The flashbulbs exploded immediately.
"Miss Torres! Isabella! Look here!" "Mr. Moretti! Is it true you're getting married?" "Isabella, what would you say to Ricardo now?" "Dante!" Do your investors know about the relationship?
Dante pulled me closer, his arm now firmly around my waist. He leaned in and whispered in my ear:
"Smile. Look in love. We've sold the story now."
Before I could respond, he stopped and turned to the cameras. His arm was still possessively around me, and he wore that half-smile that probably made hearts stop around the world.
"Gentlemen, ladies," his voice was charming, controlled, "my fiancée and I request privacy at this time. Her father is in the hospital, and our focus is on family. We will make an official statement soon."
"Fiancée?" a reporter shouted. "So it's official?"
Dante pulled me even closer, his gaze falling on me with an intensity that seemed almost... real.
"Completely official." His green eyes pierced mine. "When you know, you know."
And then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. It was chaste, sweet, perfectly calculated for the cameras. But there was something about the way his lips lingered against my skin a second longer than necessary, something about the way his hand tightened around my waist.
The cameras exploded into a frenzy. Dante led me inside before I could process what had happened.
The hospital lobby was luxurious—more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. Marble, ornamental plants, modern art on the walls. A woman in a suit approached immediately.
"Mr. Moretti, Ms. Torres. Please follow me." She led us to private elevators. "Your father is in suite 804. Your mother is with him."
The elevator ascended in silence. Dante still held my hand, and I didn't have the energy to question why. Or why he wouldn't let go.
"You looked amazing out there," he said softly.
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly. You looked genuinely distraught, vulnerable. I looked like the protective boyfriend, defending my beloved." He smiled slightly. "The story practically writes itself."
"Everything is a game to you, isn't it?"
"Not a game." His tone turned serious. "A survival strategy. There's a difference." The elevator doors opened before I could respond. The woman led us down a quiet hallway to an elegant wooden door. She knocked softly before opening it.
The suite was absurdly luxurious for a hospital room. But it felt like a hotel room—leather sofa, flat-screen TV, even a small sitting area. And on the adjustable hospital bed, connected to monitors but clearly conscious and alert, was my father.
Henrique Torres was fifty-eight, with perfectly coiffed gray hair and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. He'd built his consulting firm from scratch, becoming one of the most respected names in the business world.
And now he was looking at me as if I were a stranger.
"Dad," I whispered, letting go of Dante's hand and rushing to the bed. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I—"
"Isabella." His voice was cold, controlled. None of the warmth he always had when he spoke to me. "I'm so glad you decided to show up."
The stab of pain was physical. "Dad, I can explain—"
"Can you?" My mother, Beatriz Torres, emerged from the bathroom. She was elegant even in a crisis—gray Chanel dress, pearls, flawless makeup except for slightly puffy eyes. "Can you explain how you destroyed our family name in one night?"
"Mrs. Torres." Dante stepped forward, his presence filling the space. "With all due respect, Isabella didn't destroy anything. We fell in love. That's not a crime."
My father studied him with that penetrating gaze he used to assess business partners. "Dante Moretti. I know who you are."
"I imagine so, sir."
"Your father was a notorious adulterer and compulsive gambler. He ruined several families before dying in debt." My father didn't mince words. "Give me one reason to believe you're different."
"Henrique!" My mother looked shocked, but my father didn't look away from Dante.
To my astonishment, Dante didn't seem offended. He seemed to… respect the frankness.
"I'm sorry." "I can't," he replied simply. "I can't give you proof that I'm not my father. I can only say that I've spent the last thirteen years of my life proving otherwise. I've built a legitimate empire. I pay my debts. I keep my word." He paused. "And I love your daughter."
The silence in the room was deafening. Even the heart monitors seemed to have gone silent.
"You love my daughter," my father repeated skeptically. "You met her yesterday."
"I met her two years ago," Dante lied with impressive fluency. "At the Hope Foundation party. We talked all night. I never forgot her. And when fate brought us together again yesterday, I knew I couldn't let her slip away again."
I looked at him, surprised by the way he wove truth and fiction so seamlessly. Because we really did meet at that party. We really did talk. The only lie was that he wasn't romantically interested.
Or was he?
"That's ridiculous," my mother interrupted. "Isabella was engaged! To Ricardo! They were getting married in three months!"
"Ricardo was cheating on her." Dante's voice hardened. "With her best friend. Isabella deserves much better than a man who can't be faithful even during his engagement."
"How do you know about this?" My father leaned forward, interested despite the situation.
"Because I was at the hotel bar when Isabella found out." Dante held his gaze. "I saw her heart break." And I did what any man who loves her would do—I tried to fix it.
"Dragging her to bed?" My mother practically spat the words.
"Mom!" I protested. "It wasn't like that."
"It wasn't? Then explain the photos, Isabella. Explain how you ended up handcuffed to a man you "barely know." She was crying now, silent tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. "We raised you better than that."
Guilt engulfed me. She was right. They raised me better. They gave me everything. A top-notch education, solid values, unconditional love. And I repaid them by making headlines.
"It was my fault," Dante spoke before I could. "Isabella was vulnerable, hurt. I should have been the gentleman. I should have just taken her home." He looked at me, and there was something real in his eyes now, something that wasn't a performance. "But I was selfish. I wanted time with her. I wanted her to see me." And when things got... intense... I didn't stop.
"So you admit you took advantage of my daughter?" My father tried to sit up more, and the monitors beeped in protest.
"Dad, stop!" I rushed to him, adjusting the pillows. "Your blood pressure. You need to calm down."
"Calm down?" But he let me help him. "Isabella, do you have any idea what this has caused? Three clients abandoned us this morning. THREE. Our biggest accounts. They said they can't be associated with "questionable family values."
Every word was a stab.
"I'll fix this," I promised. "Somehow, I—"
"It's already fixed." Dante pulled an envelope from the briefcase he was carrying, so overwhelmed with emotions I couldn't tell he'd taken the document. "Or it will be, once we sign this."
My father took the envelope suspiciously. He opened it and removed a multi-page document. His eyes scanned the text quickly, and with each line, his expression changed from distrust to surprise to... interest?
"This is..." He looked at Dante. "This is a marriage contract."
"Yes," Dante confirmed. "With an interesting clause on page three."
My father turned the pages, found the clause, and his eyes widened.
"You're offering fifty million dollars in investment in Torres Consultoria?" He reread it, as if in disbelief. "In exchange for..."
"Nothing," Dante said firmly. "In exchange for absolutely nothing. It's a wedding gift. For my future father-in-law."
"Dante," I whispered, shocked. "You didn't mention that."
"Because it's non-negotiable." He didn't even look at me. "I won't let your family suffer because we love each other. If marriage means uniting families, then I'm uniting our resources too."
My mother took the contract from my father, reading it quickly. "This is... too generous. There has to be some catch."
"No trap." Dante finally turned to me. "Except Isabella has to agree to marry me. Officially. This week."
"This week?" My voice came out in a squeak.
"The longer we wait, the worse it gets." He was in full businessman mode now. "We need to control the narrative. A quickie marriage reinforces the story of passionate love. We wait too long; it seems calculated."
"It seems calculated because it is calculated!" I burst out.
"Isabella," my father called after me, his voice softer now. "Come here."
I approached the bed, and he took my hand with the one not connected to the life support.
"Do you love this man?" he asked softly, just for me to hear.
The question caught me off guard. Love? I barely knew him. But I looked at Dante—standing there in his perfect suit, holding a contract that would save my family, lying smoothly to protect me—and something in my chest tightened.
It wasn't love. It couldn't be.
But it wasn't anything either.
"I..." I hesitated. "I think I can love. Eventually."
It wasn't a lie. Technically.
My father studied my face for a long moment, those sharp eyes missing nothing. Finally, he sighed.
"Beatriz," my mother called, "bring my pen."
"Henrique, you can't be seriously considering this."
"Fifty million dollars saves the company," he said decisively. "And Isabella has clearly made her decision. We can support her or lose her. I prefer the former."
Tears burned my eyes. Even after everything, he still supported me.
My mother brought the pen, her hands trembling slightly. My father signed the contract on the designated line, then looked at me.
"Your turn, princess."
Dante brought the document to me, offering a Mont Blanc pen. Our fingers touched at the transfer, and that strange electricity passed between us again. "Last chance to back out," he murmured, too quietly for the others to hear. "I can still find another solution."
I looked at my father in the hospital. At my mother with tears in her eyes. At the contract that would save everything they'd built.
And at Dante, his green eyes holding secrets I still didn't fully understand.
"Where do I sign?" I asked, my voice firm.
He pointed to the line. I put the pen to the paper, hesitated only a second, and signed my name.
Isabella Sofia Torres.
The ink was still wet when Dante signed just below.
Dante Alessandro Moretti.
"There." He closed the contract with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Officially engaged."
My phone exploded with notifications instantly. Someone—probably the paparazzi outside—had already leaked the news that we were together in the hospital.
"When's the wedding?" my mother asked, ever practical even in shock. "Friday," Dante replied without hesitation. "Small, intimate ceremony. Just family and close friends."
"That's in four days!" I protested.
"Yes." He took my hand, intertwining our fingers. "That's enough time to organize something beautiful. And short enough to maintain the media momentum."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that this was crazy. That a wedding in four days was impossible.
But I looked at our intertwined fingers, at the signed contract, at my parents beginning to relax as they processed that the financial crisis was over.
I had sold my soul to the devil.
And now I had four days before I was to marry him.
God help me.