"Miss Novikov? Are you ready? Mr. Agosti has arrived," Jane's voice floated softly through the closed bedroom door, making my chest tighten with a fresh wave of nausea.

I’d been dreading this moment for days, but now the idea that Mr. Agosti would be in the car beside me—my forced companion and soon-to-be husband—turned my stomach into knots.

Trying to steady my breath, I reached for my bag, my fingers trembling. Just as I moved to open the door, a sudden panic froze me. The ring. I’d forgotten the ring.

"Crap," I whispered harshly, scrambling to fish out the small velvet box from my drawer, slamming it closed and stuffing it into my bag.

"I’m coming," I called out, opening the door and nearly colliding with Jane, waiting patiently outside.

"Oh, Sofia," she breathed, her eyes widening at the state of my face. "You need a fresh bandage. That cut is bleeding everywhere." She quickly fetched a clean cloth, gently dabbing the raw skin before placing a soft pink bandage over the wound.

"Thank you, Jane," I said, my voice thick with unshed tears. She was my only solace in this cold house—soon to be a memory.

Jane pulled me into a tight hug, an embrace so warm it almost made me forget the crushing weight of what awaited me. But then, Papa’s booming voice shattered the moment, bellowing from downstairs.

"Come down now!"

Reluctantly, I pulled away, wiping my cheeks, and made my way down the staircase, clutching my bag like a lifeline. My hair was tied back in a high ponytail, strands escaping to frame my bruised face. I wore faded blue jeans and an oversized black crew neck sweater that swallowed my slight frame.

"He didn’t even come inside to see you," Mama sneered from the hallway, her eyes skating over me with disdain.

"Mark my words," Anastasia spat, her voice venomous, "she’ll be nothing but his little plaything soon enough. Everyone knows it." Her hateful gaze burned into me, but I kept my head down, desperate to escape their cutting remarks.

With trembling hands, I opened the front door and was met by the sight of a sleek, black car waiting patiently at the curb.

A cold shiver ran through me. Was I really going to sit beside that man for the entire journey?

"Let me take your bag, Miss Novikov," an older gentleman offered with a courteous smile, extending his hand.

I nodded silently, forcing a small, fragile smile as I handed over my bag. He led me steadily down the path toward the car.

My heart pounded in my chest, every step more difficult than the last.

As the door swung open, I froze at the sight of Mr. Agosti inside, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, his dark hair tousled just enough to suggest careless elegance. The tattoo behind his ear peeked from beneath loose strands, sharp eyes fixed intently on his phone.

"Going to stand there all day?" His voice rumbled low, thick with an Italian accent, eyes never lifting from the screen.

"N-no," I stammered shakily, sliding into the leather seat and pushing myself as far from him as the cramped space allowed.

He smelled unexpectedly clean, a subtle mix of cologne and something indefinable, like cold metal and rain.

My throat tightened, dry and raw. His gaze burned into me, silent and unyielding.

To escape, I turned my eyes to the window, tracing the blurred shapes of passing trees and streetlights, willing the drive to end.

"Where’s the ring?" he muttered after several minutes of oppressive silence.

My eyes widened in panic. How could I explain without sounding foolish?

"I… I forgot to put it on. It’s in my bag," I whispered, voice barely audible as I stared down at my lap, biting my trembling lip.

"Do you have some sort of fascination with that window?" his tone sharpened with irritation, and only then did I realize how hunched I’d become, practically pressed against the glass.

Clearing my throat, I straightened and shook my head, murmuring, "No."

The rest of the journey passed in a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft tapping of his phone against the console as he scrolled. I dared a glance his way, noting how his strong jaw was clenched, dark hair falling carelessly over his brow.

My cheeks burned unexpectedly. How could someone so intimidating also be so striking?

Hours later, the car finally slowed, pulling into a sprawling estate that took my breath away.

My eyes widened behind the glass as manicured gardens stretched out in every direction, fountains sparkling in the afternoon sun. This mansion was a world apart from the oppressive gloom of my childhood home—a glittering fortress of wealth and power.

Steeling myself, I stepped out, clutching my bag as the same polite man helped with the door.

"Thank you, sir," I said softly, offering a timid smile.

"Of course, Miss Novikov. Anything for you," he replied warmly.

"May I ask your name?" I inquired just as he prepared to leave.

"Antonio Mancini," he said with a small wave before slipping into the waiting car and disappearing toward what I guessed was a private garage.

Left alone, I scanned the towering front doors, heart hammering in my chest. Where was I supposed to go now? What awaited me beyond those walls?

Then I spotted him—Connor Agosti—his tall frame disappearing inside the house, his phone pressed to his ear as he barked rapid Italian orders.

Unsure, I hesitated before cautiously following, my footsteps echoing down a long corridor awash with golden light and opulent décor.

The walls boasted intricate frescoes and gleaming marble floors that reflected the high chandeliers overhead.

His voice grew louder, edged with anger, but I couldn’t understand a word.

Distracted by the lavish surroundings, I wandered, eyes drawn to every detail—the heavy velvet drapes, the gleaming silver ornaments, the scent of fresh lilies permeating the air.

Lost in the grandeur, I accidentally bumped into him—my shoulder colliding with his as he moved past.

I froze instantly, cheeks flaming with embarrassment, daring not to meet his gaze.

The phone call abruptly ended, and I could hear his heavy steps approaching.

"Were you following me?" His deep voice, thick with that Italian accent, sent a sudden chill through my body.

"I… I didn’t know where to go, so I followed you," I murmured, voice barely above a whisper, back still turned to him. The closeness was suffocating.

"Turn around," he commanded bluntly.

My heart thundered as I slowly obeyed, eyes wide as I faced him, the sheer proximity making my breath hitch.

Fear clawed at me—was this how it would be? The cold command, the silent threat? Could he be as merciless as Papa?

Instinctively, I tried to step back, desperate to put distance between us, but the hall was narrow.

He loomed over me, impossibly tall and imposing, his dark eyes piercing as they searched my face.

In that moment, I realized I was utterly alone, bound by invisible chains far heavier than silk or shadow.

"You will learn your place," he said quietly, voice low but menacing. "And I will make sure you do."

The weight of his words crushed me, but somewhere deep down, a small flame flickered—the first spark of resistance.