Both.
Cesare tossed his jacket over a chair, loosened his tie. "Would you like a drink?"
The mundane question in this surreal situation almost made me laugh hysterically.
"No. I want to understand what happens now."
He poured scotch—expensive, amber, three fingers. Took a drink before answering.
Set down his glass. Turned to face me fully.
His gray eyes swept over me—still in the wedding dress, hair falling from its elaborate style, makeup smudged, exhausted and terrified but still standing.
"What happens now," he said slowly, "is you become my wife in every sense of the word."
He crossed the obscenely large room to me. I wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go—windows behind me, Cesare in front.
He reached up and began removing my veil—the final barrier between us.
His fingers brushed my cheek. I shivered.
"Strip," he said quietly.
Not a request. A command.
My eyes went wide. "What?"
"The dress. Take it off. Now."
My voice shook. For the first time all day, thelastthing I wanted was to be out of this dress.
"No."
Cesare's expression didn't change. "You're my wife, Paola. Tonight, that means something. You can make this easy, or you can make this difficult. But it's happening either way."
He stepped back slightly. Gave me space, but not escape.
My throat went completely dry. The single word hung in the air between us—strip—and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think,couldn’t do anything but stare at this man who was my husband, my captor, my judge and executioner all rolled into one.
The penthouse suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in despite the floor-to-ceiling windows that should have made everything feel open, endless. But there was no escape. Just Cesare, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes, waiting for my compliance like it was already a foregone conclusion.
My hands twisted in the silk of my wedding dress—Bianca's dress, really, because nothing about this day had been mine. Not the ceremony, not the vows, not even my own name when the priest declared us husband and wife. And now he wants this too.
My body. My submission.
The last piece of myself I have any control over.
CHAPTER 4
Cesare
Her face drained of color—every drop of blood fled south, leaving her pale as the dress.
I watched carefully. Catalogued every micro-expression, every tell, every unconscious signal.
This was a test.
Not just of compliance, but ofwhoshe was beneath the fear and exhaustion.
