"I'm not your wife yet," I snapped.
"Semantics." His hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance with proprietary ease. "The ceremony's tomorrow. Might as well get used to it." His gaze dropped to the torn hem, then slowly traveled back up. "Though we'll need to do something about that dress. Can't have my bride looking like she just escaped from someone else."
Two men in dark suits flanked the glass doors—security, obviously. They nodded to Luca with the practiced deference of soldiers greeting their commander. Their eyes slid over me with careful neutrality, but I caught it—the flicker of curiosity, the assessment.
Word would spread fast. The Moretti princess, caught and claimed.
The lobby was all marble and modern art, sterile in its perfection. Our footsteps echoed as Luca led me to a private elevator, using a keycard to access it. The doors slid shut with a whisper, trapping us in reflective steel.
I watched our distorted images in the polished walls—his, tall and controlled in a dark suit; mine, a mess of white silk and dark hair, looking like exactly what I was: a woman who'd tried to run and failed.
The elevator climbed silently, the numbers ticking higher and higher. When we finally stopped, the doors opened directly into a sprawling apartment—no hallway, no other units. Private access. His domain.
It wasn't a prison. That would have been easier to hate.
Instead, it was beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the view breathtaking even in my current state. Modern furniture in blacks and grays, sleek lines and expensive taste—nothing I hadn't seen in my father's various properties.
But then my eyes caught on something unexpected.
An entire wall of books—and not the decorative leather-bound sets wealthy men bought to look cultured. These were worn, read, annotated. I spotted philosophy texts, poetry collections, histories of art and war. Sticky notes flagged passages. A weathered copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristosat on a side table, bookmarked halfway through.
Luca Romano read.Reallyread.
The discovery unsettled me more than the penthouse, the guards, even the kidnapping itself. It was easier to hate a monster. Harder to hate a man who underlined passages in Dante.
A gilded cage, just like I'd thought in the car. Pretty enough to make you forget you couldn't leave.
"Your room is down the hall," Luca said, his voice breaking through my dazed observation. "Second door on the right. I had clothes brought in—your size, I'm told."
I turned to stare at him. "How did you—"
"I've been planning this for a while,principessa." That infuriating smirk played at his lips. "I'm thorough."
The word sent a chill down my spine. How long had he been watching me? Preparing for this? And why hadn't I seen it coming?
"The bathroom is stocked with whatever you need," he continued, moving toward the kitchen like this was a normal conversation. Like he was showing a guest around, not a captive. "There's food if you're hungry. I'd recommend eating something—you look like you're about to pass out."
The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and granite, but what caught my attention was the covered dish on the counter, still warm. When he lifted the lid, steam rose carrying the scent ofarancini—Sicilian rice balls, crispy and perfect. My favorite. The kind mynonnaused to make before she passed, the recipe I hadn't tasted in years because no restaurant got it quite right.
My traitorous stomach clenched with hunger.
I wanted to throw something at him. Wanted to scream. But exhaustion was creeping in, making my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish. When was the last time I'd eaten? Before the wedding that wasn't. Before I'd run.
Before my world had tilted on its axis and I'd ended up here.
"I'm not hungry," I lied.
"Your stomach says otherwise." He set out a plate with casual efficiency. "Eat, Sienna. It's not poisoned, and you'll need your strength."
"How did you—" I gestured at the arancini, hating that I wanted them, hating that he'd known.
"I pay attention." He poured himself a drink, watching me with those ice-blue eyes. "It's what keeps people alive in our world."
I stared at the plate, war raging inside me. Accepting his food felt like accepting him, like admitting I needed what he offered. But my body made the choice my pride couldn't—my hand reached for anarancinobefore I could stop myself.
It tasted exactly like my grandmother's. Perfectly crispy outside, creamy inside, the saffron and peas balanced just right. I hated that it was delicious. Hated that he'd gotten it right.
I hated even more that he watched me eat it with something like satisfaction in his eyes.
