Chapter 11 – The Bride's Cage

• Alina was now a wife.
• A prisoner in silk.
• She was called out of the room.
• Two guards flanked her as she walked through the grand halls of the estate, her wedding dress whispering against the marble floors. It felt like a mockery—this white fabric, soft and elegant, draped over skin that buzzed with fury.
• The corridor twisted deeper into a part of the house she hadn’t seen before. The air changed—quieter, older, as if the walls held secrets too heavy to speak aloud.
• Teresa waited by a double door carved from dark mahogany. “This is the master suite,” she said gently. “Your new room.”
• Our room.
• Alina’s chest tightened. She stared at the doors like they might swallow her whole. “Does he sleep here?”
• Teresa nodded. “He will. From tonight.”
• The guards stepped back. Teresa opened the door, and Alina stepped into a world she wasn’t prepared for.
• The suite was massive—two stories of velvet-draped elegance. The fireplace flickered with golden light, casting shadows across a four-poster bed dressed in silk sheets. Antique furniture gleamed in the firelight. A spiral staircase wound upward to a private library balcony. The windows were tall, arched, and bolted shut.
• Luxury. Imprisonment. Two sides of the same coin.
• “I’ll bring something for you to eat,” Teresa said, hesitating. “You should rest.”
• “I don’t want to rest,” Alina replied. “I want answers.”
• But Teresa was already backing away. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Alina alone in the gilded cage.
• Moments passed. Then the door opened again.
• Luciano stepped inside.
• Gone was the tailored tuxedo from the wedding. He wore a black shirt now, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked freshly showered, scent of clean soap and sandalwood trailing behind him.
• Alina’s eyes darted to the bed.
• “I won’t touch you,” he said quietly, reading her thoughts.
• “I didn’t ask.”
• He walked further into the room. Calm. Measured. Dangerous in every inch of restraint.
• “Why bring me here?” she demanded. “Why not let me rot in the guest room where you’ve been keeping me?”
• “Because you’re my wife now,” he said, with the certainty of a man stating fact, not opinion. “And this is where my wife sleeps.”
• “With you.”
• “Yes.”
• She took a step back. “You said you wouldn’t—”
• “And I won’t. Not tonight. Not until you understand what it means to belong to me.”
• Her hands balled into fists. “I’ll never belong to you.”
• He looked at her for a long moment. Then crossed to the bar tucked near the fireplace, poured himself a drink, and turned back to face her.
• “I don’t need your acceptance tonight. But I do expect obedience.”
• Alina’s pulse jumped. “Obedience?”
• He took a sip. “You’ll find life here easier if you don’t fight me.”
• Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
• Luciano stepped closer. Slowly. “I know you are. But fear is only one part of what you feel. The rest… will come in time.”
• “Don’t talk like you know me,” she hissed.
• “I’ve known you longer than you realize.”
• Her rage burned hotter.
• She crossed to the fireplace, picked up the nearest object—a heavy crystal tumbler—and hurled it at him.
• It missed his head by inches, shattering against the wall.
• He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice.
• Luciano walked over to her, slow and controlled, then leaned down so their eyes were level.
• “Temper doesn’t suit you, cara mia.”
• Her breath came fast. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”
• His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes. “I told you—I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”
• She opened her mouth to curse him, but he had already turned away. He placed the glass down and moved toward the library staircase.
• “I’m sleeping upstairs tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll find pajamas in the drawer by the bed. Breakfast will be brought at eight.”
• “That’s it?” she demanded. “You trap me here, force me into this—this sham—and now what? We play house?”
• He paused halfway up the staircase. “This isn’t a game, Alina.”
• Then he disappeared into the darkness above.
• Sleep didn’t come.
• Alina lay in the enormous bed, surrounded by too many pillows and not enough answers. Her limbs ached with exhaustion, but her mind wouldn’t slow. The sheets smelled like him, powerful and intoxicating. The pillow carried a trace of his cologne.
• She kicked it onto the floor.
• Around 3 a.m., she drifted into a restless sleep.
• And dreamed of fire.
• Screaming.
• Her mother’s voice, sharp and panicked: “Run, Alina, run!”
• The flames swallowed everything.
• She woke with a gasp, heart pounding, sweat clinging to her skin. The room was silent but oppressive, shadows long and heavy.
• She sat up, needing air, needing something—anything—to ground her.
• That’s when she saw it.
• A small wooden drawer beneath the window seat. The key was already inside.
• Strange.
• She opened it—and froze.
• Inside was a single piece of paper.
• A child’s picture. Crude stick figures. A little girl with curly hair. The background was a house, flowers, the sun.
• But it was the handwriting in the corner that sent her blood cold.
• To Alina, my sunshine. Love, Mommy.
• Her breath caught.
• She flipped the drawing over. On the back, written in adult script, was a note:
• “Protect her. Promise me, Luciano.”
• Alina’s throat closed.
• The picture fell from her fingers.
• The question fell from her lips like a curse:
• “Who the hell are you?”