The car sliced through the darkness for what felt like an eternity, the tension inside the vehicle as thick as the night air pressing against the windows.
After a long, quiet drive, faint glimmers of light finally pierced the black veil ahead, their cold glow a stark contrast to the enveloping shadows.
Santo veered the car sharply to the right, then pressed a sleek button on the dashboard. Instantly, the gate before them responded with a soft mechanical hum, swinging open to reveal the sanctum beyond.
We rolled past a vast expanse, the manicured greens of what I presumed was a golf course stretching beside the driveway, slicing through the darkness like an emerald ribbon.
Then, emerging from the cluster of darkened trees, stood a mansion—a sprawling fortress of beige stone and black accents, its intimidating silhouette framed by the night.
My breath caught, lips parting in quiet awe. This was to be my new reality, my new home—cold, grand, and utterly foreign.
In front of the mansion, two hulking men clad in black stood motionless, faces obscured by masks that reflected no warmth. Heavy machine guns rested in their hands with a deadly casualness. At their sides, two massive Rottweilers, restrained by thick chains, snarled softly, their eyes gleaming with suspicion.
Why would his guards bear such weapons? Was this a warning? A promise? The chill of unease coiled tighter within me.
"We're here," Santo said, voice flat and devoid of warmth as he slid the seatbelt off and swung the door open.
His indifference was as sharp as the night air, making the moment feel even colder.
I swallowed hard, stealing a deep breath to steady my trembling hands before wrestling the door open and stepping onto the smooth stone walk.
He lingered by the car, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes narrowing with an expression that screamed boredom.
"Asshole," I muttered under my breath, the words barely audible but fiercely aimed at him.
Passing the guards, their eyes locked onto me with an unnerving chill, stripping away any sense of safety I dared to cling to.
They were nothing like the familiar faces back home—these men radiated menace, a brutal coldness that seeped into my bones.
I wanted to turn back. To escape this nightmare.
"Are you coming in, or are you planning to guard the perimeter all night?" Santo asked, arching an eyebrow as if amused by my hesitation.
I ignored the jab and stepped through the grand front doors.
Inside, a silence hung thick and heavy, oppressive in its emptiness.
The space felt hollow—bereft of warmth, personality, or any comforting presence.
There was little furniture, and worse, no photographs or personal touches to soften the austere walls.
A profound sadness settled in my chest. This was a house built not for living, but for control.
"This way," Santo commanded, his voice cutting through the silence as he disappeared up the staircase.
I gathered the hem of my dress and followed silently, each step echoing ominously on the polished floors.
At the top, he opened a door, revealing a spacious room dominated by a king-sized bed, the sheets pristine and inviting.
A flicker of relief warmed me as I approached and let my hand glide across the silky fabric.
"Goodnight," I murmured, turning to face him.
Without a word, he shut and locked the door behind him, the heavy click echoing finality.
Then his voice dropped low, commanding. "Strip."
My stomach twisted into knots. "Excuse me?" I stammered, disbelief and fear tightening my throat.
He began loosening his tie, each deliberate motion sending a shiver through me. "It's time to consummate the marriage," he stated coldly.
Backing away, panic surged. "What are you talking about? We're not even... together."
"This must happen. Tradition demands it. I don't want this any more than you do," he insisted, closing the distance between us.
Trembling, I scanned for escape and bolted, slamming the bathroom door in his face before collapsing against it, trying desperately to regulate my ragged breathing.
Why hadn't I stopped this madness earlier? Why had I let kindness override caution?
His knocks came, gentle but insistent. "Emilia."
"Please, don't hurt me," I whispered, the words tasting bitter and humiliating as they escaped.
I let him know—I was scared, defeated, and trapped beneath his shadow.
Silence hung between us before he finally answered, his voice softer, almost hesitant. "I'm not going to hurt you. We won't do anything you don't want."
I stayed quiet, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"Just come out. You can't hide in there all night," he added, frustration seeping through his calm veneer.
Slowly, I slid down, curling into myself on the cool tile floor, burying my face into my arms.
Once, as a child, I had dreamed of a perfect love—a storybook romance where the right person would arrive and make everything right.
But reality had crushed that hope beneath the weight of this forced union.
My future, I realized, was sealed with a man who resented my existence as much as I feared his.
Taking a steadying breath, I rose, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the room where Santo sat on the bed, methodically removing his jacket.
His eyes caught mine, and he stood abruptly, words forming then fading as neither of us spoke.
I averted my gaze, cheeks burning with awkwardness.
"Your bags are in the closet," he muttered, voice rough.
"Thanks," I replied, waiting for him to leave.
He began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a sculpted torso honed by discipline and wrapped in a sleeve of intricate tattoos.
My eyes lingered involuntarily on his strong arms before darting back to his face.
He noticed and smirked, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I twirled away, cheeks flushed. "Sorry," I mumbled.
He chuckled low and stepped closer. "Why undress here?" I asked, trying to sound firm.
"Why else? It's my room," he replied dryly.
"Do you expect me to share it with you?"
His smirk deepened. "Well, we're husband and wife."
The words hit me like a slap. "There you go again—husband and wife," I snapped, pausing as I caught sight of him pulling on sweatpants, the casual act revealing more than I expected.
My eyes widened at the sight, and I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Santo—"
"Will you ever be quiet?" he groaned, crossing his arms. "It's not like I'm asking for more. We're just sharing a bed."
"Why must we?" I protested. "This is inappropriate. I've never—well, I mean, I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before."
He regarded me with a bored expression, then mirrored my crossed arms.
Rolling his eyes, he moved toward the closet. "Do what you want. This is my room, so I'm staying."
"But all my things are there," I reminded him.
"And mine too," he said, settling on the bed. "Look, princess, I’m exhausted. I don’t have the energy to argue. Sleep wherever you want."
"Stop calling me that," I muttered, shaking my head.
Unbelievable, I thought, snatching my makeup remover and pajamas.
First, I peeled off the dress, the fabric sliding easily down my arms.
Then, I wiped away the traces of makeup, my fingers cool and methodical as I followed my skincare routine.
Lastly, I let my hair fall free, the soft strands brushing my shoulders.
Opening the door quietly, I found Santo already asleep, his breathing deep and steady.
Unsure, I hesitated—should I stay? Could I share this bed with a man I barely knew, who barely tolerated me?
Deciding against it, I slipped out, stepping softly into the silent hallway.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed: one of the masked guards passed, eyes icy and unreadable.
Our families might not be at war, but trust was a fragile thread between them.
Fear prickled my skin, and I darted back into the room, seeking refuge in the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom.
For all his coldness, Santo’s presence was less threatening than the deadly watchmen outside.
Quietly closing the door, I curled into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, the chill of the air conditioning nipping at my skin.
Despite the warmth of the blankets, I resisted, refusing to surrender.
I would not give him the satisfaction. I would not let him win this night.