Chapter 2
953words
For Serafina, the week before the wedding was an endless parade of fittings for a dress she hadn't chosen, and forced smiles for relatives who barely disguised their condolences as congratulations.
She witnessed Dante's financial power, which shocked even Serafina despite her lifelong familiarity with luxury. Her wedding dress, custom-made by a world-renowned designer, featured a skirt encrusted with diamonds and precious gems—magnificent to the point of ostentation. The jewelry she wore was so valuable she dared not touch it, fearing even her fingertips might mar its perfection.
The wedding was a brief, rigid ceremony in a private chapel, attended only by the highest-ranking members of both families.
A priest muttered in Latin, the ancient words of union sounding more like a funeral rite.
When Dante slipped the platinum ring onto her finger, Seraphina instinctively flinched. To her surprise, his grip turned gentle, almost reassuring.
Perhaps, Seraphina thought, he wasn't quite the monster she'd imagined.
There was no reception. Only a black armored sedan gliding silently through the city like a shark through dark waters. Dante sat across from her, his profile turned toward the bulletproof window, a study in marble.
She was now Seraphina Moretti—a name that felt branded onto her soul.
The car descended into a private underground garage where they were escorted to a private elevator. The ascent was silent and so rapid it left her stomach lurching.
Dante's penthouse crowned a slender obsidian tower that pierced the Manhattan skyline. As the elevator doors parted, they revealed an enormous living space where an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking panorama of the city below.
Polished white marble floors reflected cold recessed lighting. The furniture was minimalist and modern—all hard lines and unforgiving angles in shades of black, gray, and chrome. No artwork adorned the walls, no photographs, no personal touches—too sterile to ever feel like a home.
"Let me show you the layout," Dante's voice sliced through the silence, sounding more like a warden processing a new inmate than a husband welcoming his bride.
He led her through the cavernous space.
His presence was commanding; lights automatically illuminated his path, doors yielding to his thumbprint without resistance.
"This is the main living area. Kitchen's over there." He pointed. "Fully stocked. Chefs available on call." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Your favorite Ceylon tea is in the cabinet on the left."
Seraphina froze. Such a tiny, specific detail.
That was the tea her mother had brewed for her, the one she drank every morning. A detail known only to her closest family. How long had he been watching her? How deeply had he delved into her life?
He didn't wait for a response, already striding toward a floating staircase of steel and glass. "The second floor is yours."
He bypassed the bedroom, stopping instead at a smaller door. Behind it lay a study. Bookshelves lined the walls, not filled with matching leather-bound classics for show, but with familiar spines—first editions of Keats and Shelley, complete collections of her favorite classical novelists. A personal sanctuary, prepared specifically for her.
"Your father informed me of your preferences," he stated flatly, by way of explanation.
He studied the books rather than her face, but she caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
He turned abruptly. "Your bedroom is here." He pushed open the main door. The room was immense—soft, exquisite, luxurious. Everything cream and white, a vast pristine expanse devoid of personality.
"The third floor houses my office, gym, and security center."
Then he turned to face her directly, transforming back into the cold commander. This was the version she recognized. The one who set rules.
"There are rules," he said, his voice dropping, authority resonating in every syllable. "You do not leave this penthouse without my explicit permission. You go nowhere without my chief bodyguard Marco accompanying you." He nodded toward a tall man who had materialized silently in the hallway—a giant in a suit who resembled a monument more than a person.
He stared into her eyes, poised to deliver the final, most invasive rule. "All communications..." he paused. A muscle twitched in his jaw—a flash of internal conflict so brief she nearly missed it. He steeled himself, expression hardening. "...will be monitored. Your phone. Your laptop. Everything."
She raised her chin, her voice surprisingly steady. "What is this? Am I your prisoner now?"
A flicker of frustration flashed in his eyes, but he stood firm. His words were clipped, his towering presence overwhelming. "This is for your safety."
To him, this was simple, indisputable fact.
He had placed the most precious thing he had ever encountered inside the most secure vault he could build. He was protecting that light from the monsters that prowled his darkness.
To her, his words were the ultimate dismissal.
Your safety is mine to ensure. Your life is my property.
His reasoning was irrelevant.
The result remained the same.
He expected no argument, merely nodded curtly. "Marco will show you how to use the security interface. Find me if you have questions."
With that, he turned and left, footsteps echoing on marble. The giant bodyguard stepped forward, expression impassive.
Serafina barely heard Marco's explanation about emergency protocols and biometric locks.
She brushed past him, drifting to the center of her enormous, empty bedroom. She gazed at the sea of lights beyond the glass—so close yet a world away. A princess in an ivory tower. A bird in a gilded cage.
The heavy bedroom door closed with a resolute click. She was home. And never in her life had she felt so utterly alone.
