I woke to silence so heavy it pressed on my chest like a weight.
The DeLuca mansion wasn't just quiet, it listened. The halls seemed to absorb every breath, every whisper, as if waiting to report back to its master.
Three days had passed since the wedding and the attack. Three days of being shadowed by men with guns and faces carved from stone. They called it "protection." I called it imprisonment.
The morning light spilled through gauze curtains, painting gold across the silk sheets. I pushed them away and stood, the floor cold under my bare feet. Someone had replaced all my clothes, my dresses were gone, replaced by silk robes and couture I'd never choose. Everything here screamed luxury, but none of it felt like mine.
When I stepped into the hallway, two guards immediately straightened. "Mrs. DeLuca," one said, voice clipped.
"I told you to stop calling me that."
"Mr. DeLuca's orders," the other replied without a flicker of emotion.
Of course it was. Adrian DeLuca, my husband by law, my captor by choice. I hated the way his name still rolled through my thoughts like smoke.
At breakfast, the long dining table stretched between us like a battlefield. Adrian sat at the head, immaculate in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow—one imperfection on a face sculpted by control.
"You're awake," he said simply.
"You make it sound like a crime." I lifted the porcelain cup, refusing to meet his eyes. "Am I allowed to breathe too, or should I get permission for that?"
A ghost of a smirk curved his mouth. "You're safe. That's more than your father ever gave you."
I froze, cup halfway to my lips. "Don't talk about him."
"Then stop pretending you weren't his pawn," he said evenly, setting down his glass. "You were a bargaining chip, Isabella. He sold you to save his empire."
"And you bought me," I shot back. "That doesn't make you better."
Something flashed in his eyes, heat or hurt, I couldn't tell. The air between us thickened. He rose suddenly, his chair scraping against marble, and walked toward me.
Instinct told me to step back, but I didn't. If he wanted to cage me, I'd make sure he saw I was no pet bird.
"You think you understand this world?" he asked, voice low, almost soft. "You don't know what it takes to survive it."
"Then teach me," I whispered before I could stop myself.
His hand slammed against the wall beside my head. The sound cracked through the silence. I flinched but held his gaze.
"Careful, princess," he said, so close his breath warmed my skin. "You're not ready for the truth."
"And you're not ready for me."
For a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes, storm-grey and burning, searched my face as if he could read what I wasn't saying. Then he pushed away and turned his back.
"Eat," he said, his voice once again distant. "You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
"For living in my world."
The rest of the day blurred into quiet rebellion. I tried calling my mother, my phone was gone. I asked to step outside, the guards refused. Even the windows were sealed shut.
Late afternoon, I wandered into the music room, where a grand piano gleamed under the chandelier. I pressed one key, then another, until a broken melody filled the air. It had been my father's favorite song.
But thinking of him only sharpened the ache inside me.
Was he really the monster Adrian claimed? Or was that just another DeLuca lie?
I didn't know. All I knew was that my life no longer belonged to me.
When the mansion quieted again, I heard voices from below, muffled but tense. I followed them through the corridor, stopping near the study. The door was ajar.
"…she's a liability," Marco's voice snapped. "You think her family will stay quiet? End this before it gets worse."
"I said no." Adrian's tone was cold steel. "She's under my protection."
"She's a Moretti! Her blood runs with betrayal"
"Watch your mouth." The warning in Adrian's voice made my stomach twist.
I crept back before they could see me, pulse racing. So Marco wanted me dead. And Adrian… refused?
Why?
That night, sleep didn't come. My mind replayed every word, every look. Somewhere between fear and fascination, I realized the truth, I was trapped in a gilded cage, and the man holding the key was starting to haunt me.
Adrian DeLuca poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and watched the amber swirl like fire. The mansion had quieted, but his thoughts hadn't.
He had seen fear before, men begging, crying, breaking. But Isabella Moretti didn't fear him. Not truly. Her defiance burned too bright.
And that terrified him more than any bullet.
Marco's words echoed in his mind. "She's a liability."
He knew Marco was right in one way. The marriage was supposed to be a transaction, a way to bury the war between families. But from the moment she'd stood before him in that blood-red dress, Adrian knew there would be no peace.
Not with her eyes on him like that. Not with the way her voice shook but never broke.
He set the glass down and moved toward his office. The staff had retired; the halls were still. Yet something in the air made him pause. A faint creak. A whisper.
He pushed open the door, and froze.
Isabella stood behind his desk, half-turned toward a drawer she had no right to open.
"What are you doing?" His voice was calm, too calm.
She gasped softly, her fingers stilling over a folder. "Looking for the truth."
"About?"
"You."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then, slowly, she lifted the folder and held it toward him.
The name on the tab made his pulse spike. Moretti.
He took it from her hand, eyes scanning the contents. A photograph of his late brother, Luca. A list of dates. Payments. And at the bottom her father's name, crossed out in black ink.
But the signature wasn't his. It was Marco's.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be here."
"Then stop me," she whispered.
He looked up at her this woman who should have been his enemy and saw something raw in her eyes. Pain. Truth. Maybe even the beginning of trust.
He should have been furious. He should have called the guards, punished her for the trespass. Instead, he reached past her and shut the drawer.
"Go to your room, Isabella," he said quietly. "Before I forget why I promised to keep you safe."
She hesitated. "You didn't deny it."
"There's nothing to deny," he said, but his eyes betrayed him.
When she finally left, the air seemed colder. Adrian sank into his chair, staring at the folder in his hands.
Marco's signature glared up at him like a wound.
If what Isabella found was true, then everything the alliance, the murder, even his vengeance was built on a lie.
He closed his eyes, whispering her name like a curse.
And for the first time in years, Adrian DeLuca wondered if the real enemy had been standing beside him all along.