My hands tremble as I flip through the recipe book, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Every time I blink, I see flashes of what my life has become. I’m not falling down a rabbit hole—I’m being dragged through hell by my ankles. I grip these pages until my knuckles turn white, because choosing between buttercream and fondant is the only thing keeping me from screaming until my throat bleeds.
With so few choices left to me in this life, I’m fixating on our wedding cake like it’s my last act of defiance. My fingers cramp around the pen as I sketch a towering, tiered monstrosity dripping with blood-red roses, then violently cross it out.
What kind of cake suits a woman marrying her captor? Something less traditional—something that acknowledges the strange reality we’re living. Maybe I should just bake a coffin.
When it’s almost time to leave, I still haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll just end up doing wedding cupcakes and stack them. Would that be festive enough for marrying the man who owns me?
When Raffaele strides back into the kitchen, I quickly slam the book closed and stand.
“It’s time.” The deep tenor of his voice makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention.
Taking his outstretched hand, I let him lead me to the front door. We stop in front of the coat closet, which he opens and pulls out a black coat for himself. That’s when I realize I haven’t seen my coat since I arrived.
“Here you go.”
My eyes widen as he hands me a beautiful cream-colored coat. It’s long enough to reach my ankles, and it has a hood attached to it.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. Then I roll my shoulders back. “But I want my own coat.”
I don’t need his words to know I’m starting to anger him, it’s written all over his face. “Fine,” he snaps.
Instead of handing it to me after digging it out of the coat closet, he throws it at me.
Chapter 20
Alina
The March chill bites at my exposed skin as we step out of Raffaele’s black car. Cleveland’s winter hasn’t quite released its grip yet, leaving the sidewalks wet and shining from last night’s freezing rain.
I tug my coat tighter around my body, not just against the cold but against the anxiety clawing at my throat.
The law office before us is small and unassuming. A brick building wedged between an accountant’s office and a vacant storefront. But it might as well be a fortress for all the dread it inspires in me.
This is where I’ll face Sabrina for the first time since she just up and left. And I still don’t know how I feel about that.
“Breathe, Piccola,” Raffaele murmurs, his hand settling at the small of my back, guiding me forward with quiet authority. His touch anchors me to the present, preventing my mind from spiraling into panic. “Remember who you belong to now.”
I nod, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. The possessiveness in his statement should disturb me. Instead, it steadies my shaking hands.
The reception area is exactly what you’d expect from the outside. Beige walls, worn carpet, and furniture that’s at least two decades out of date. But none of that registers properly because sitting across the room, flipping through a magazine with practiced indifference, is my sister.
Sabrina looks up as the door closes behind us. For a split second, something flickers across her face—surprise, perhaps—before her features smooth into cool disdain.
She’s immaculately put together as always; her light brown hair sleek and styled, her makeup perfect, her clothes expensive and tailored to flatter her slim figure.
Next to her sits Maxwell, his hand resting possessively on her thigh. When his eyes find me, his lips curve into a smile that makes my skin crawl. His gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering in places that make me want to cover myself despite being fully clothed.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Look who’s still alive.”
Raffaele’s body goes still beside me, his hand sliding from my lower back to my hip, drawing me closer to his side with a possessive pressure. The movement is subtle but unmistakable—a claim being staked. Maxwell’s eyes track the motion, narrowing slightly before sliding back to my face.
“Sabrina,” I acknowledge, deliberately ignoring Maxwell. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she says, setting down her magazine. “Considering your… living situation.”
God, I don’t think it’s possible for her to care any less.
