Chapter 5 Marble Prison

• The sound splits through my skull like an axe.
• BANG. BANG. BANG.
• I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs. Sunlight streams through unfamiliar windows, too bright, too harsh. For a split second, I forget where I am—then it all comes crashing back.
• The wedding. The villa. Luca's parting words echoing in my ears.
• This marriage isn't an alliance. It's your punishment.
• The pounding on the door gets louder.
• "Get up." Luca's voice cuts through the wood like a blade. "Now."
• I'm still wearing yesterday's makeup, mascara probably streaked down my cheeks like war paint. The wedding dress lies crumpled on the floor, where I finally managed to tear it off at three in the morning. I'm in nothing but a silk slip that suddenly feels thinner than paper.
• "I said now, Elena."
• My name on his tongue sounds like a curse.
• I grab a robe from the chair—cream cashmere that probably costs more than most people's rent—and wrap it around myself like armor. My hands shake as I tie the belt.
• The door flies open before I reach it.
• Luca fills the doorway, already dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. He looks like he slept eight hours and had a massage.
• I look like I got hit by a truck.
• His eyes rake over me—taking in my tangled hair, bare legs, the robe clutched tight at my throat. Something flickers across his face. Not attraction. Assessment. Like he's cataloging my weaknesses.
• "Sleep well?" His tone suggests he couldn't care less.
• "Like a baby." The lie tastes bitter.
• "Good. Get dressed. You have five minutes."
• "For what?"
• He doesn't answer. Just stands there, taking up all the oxygen in the room with his presence. Waiting.
• "I need more than five minutes to—"
• "Four and a half now."
• Heat flashes through me. "I'm not your dog, Luca."
• His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "No. You're my wife. Which is considerably worse for you."
• He steps into the room—my room, my one sanctuary—and suddenly the space feels microscopic. I back toward the window, but there's nowhere to go.
• "The bathroom's through there." He nods toward a door I hadn't noticed. "Shower if you want. But make it fast."
• "And if I don't?"
• "Then you'll meet my business associates looking exactly like you do now. Bedhead, yesterday's makeup, smelling like desperation." His eyes glitter with cruel amusement. "Though I suppose that's honest advertising."
• The words hit like a slap. I want to throw something at his head—the crystal vase on the nightstand, maybe. See how perfect his hair looks with flowers and glass in it.
• Instead, I lift my chin. "Get out."
• "Excuse me?"
• "You heard me. Get out of my room."
• For a moment, something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes. Then he laughs—a sound like breaking bottles.
• "Your room?" He takes another step closer. "Look around, Elena. Look closely."
• I don't want to. But I do.
• The windows have no latches. The beautiful view of the Mediterranean might as well be a painting for all the freedom it offers. There's no phone on the nightstand. No computer on the antique desk.
• "Every window is reinforced glass," he says conversationally. "Bulletproof. Also unbreakable from the inside. The door has an electronic lock that responds to my fingerprint. Not yours."
• My throat goes dry.
• "The bathroom has no window at all. Every entrance to this wing is monitored by cameras." He pauses, letting that sink in. "This isn't your room, wife. It's your cell."
• The robe suddenly feels suffocating. I can't breathe.
• "Why?" The word comes out strangled.
• "Because you're exactly what I said you were. Payment for your father's debts. And payments don't get to negotiate terms."
• He checks his watch—a sleek Rolex that probably cost more than my childhood home.
• "Three minutes now. Unless you'd prefer I dress you myself."
• The threat in his voice makes my skin crawl. I grab clothes from the armoire—a simple black dress, underwear, whatever I can reach fastest—and bolt for the bathroom.
• "Elena."
• I freeze with my hand on the doorknob.
• "Leave the door open."
• "What?"
• "You heard me."
• "I'm not—you can't be serious."
• His expression doesn't change. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
• "I need privacy to—"
• "You need to remember your place." He settles into the armchair by the window like he's got all day. "Door stays open. Or would you prefer I help you undress?"
• My face burns. Everything in me screams to fight, to tell him exactly where he can shove his orders. But something in his eyes stops me. Something cold and patient and utterly without mercy.
• I've seen that look before. On my father's face when he dealt with people who disappointed him.
• People who didn't survive the disappointment.
• "Fine." The word tastes like acid.
• I leave the door cracked—barely an inch, but enough that he'd hear if I tried anything. Not that there's anywhere to go. No windows, he said. No escape.
• The shower is a marble paradise with six different jets and water pressure that could strip paint. Any other time, I might have appreciated the luxury. Right now, it feels like washing in a gilded cage.
• I make it quick. Soap, shampoo, out. The hot water does nothing to wash away the feeling of being watched, hunted.
• When I emerge, wrapped in a towel the size of a bedsheet, Luca hasn't moved. He's checking his phone, thumb scrolling with practiced indifference.
• "Better," he says without looking up. "You almost look human now."
• I want to hit him. Instead, I duck back into the bathroom to get dressed. The black dress fits perfectly—too perfectly. Like someone measured me while I slept.
• "How did you—"
• "Your brother provided your measurements." Luca pockets his phone and stands. "Along with your medical records, dental history, and a rather detailed psychological profile."
• The bottom drops out of my stomach. "Alessandro wouldn't—"
• "Alessandro would do anything to keep breathing. Just like you're doing right now."
• He's right. I hate that he's right.
• "The dress suits you," he continues, circling me like a predator. "Black is appropriate. You're in mourning, after all."
• "For what?"
• "Your old life. Elena Romano died yesterday. What's left is just..." He shrugs. "Mrs. Valenti. My possession."
• "I'm not a thing you can own."
• "Aren't you?" He stops in front of me, close enough that I smell his cologne again. That dark, expensive scent that makes my head spin. "You're wearing clothes I bought. Sleeping in a bed I provided. Breathing air I allow you to breathe."
• "That's not—"
• "Ownership, Elena. Pure and simple." His voice drops to a whisper. "And I own every inch of you now."
• Before I can respond, he's moving toward the door.
• "Come. You're about to meet some very important people. Try not to embarrass me."
• "What people?"
• "Business associates. They're here to see proof that the Romano bloodline has been... properly integrated into the Valenti family structure."
• The way he says it makes my skin crawl. "Integrated?"
• "Conquered. Subjugated. Broken." He pauses at the door, hand on the handle. "Take your pick."
• "And if I refuse to play your game?"
• The smile that spreads across his face is the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
• "Then you'll discover exactly how far I'm willing to go to make a point." His eyes glitter with dark promise. "Your mother's medication was expensive, wasn't it? Before she died? The experimental treatments, the private doctors..."
• My blood turns to ice.
• "You wouldn't."
• "I would. And I will. Every time you disappoint me, someone you care about pays the price." He opens the door, gesturing for me to precede him. "After you, Mrs. Valenti."
• I walk past him on legs that feel like water. In the hallway, two men in dark suits fall into step behind us. Guards. Making sure I don't run.
• As if there's anywhere to go.
• "One more thing," Luca says as we descend the marble staircase. His voice is casual, conversational. Like we're discussing the weather. "Smile, Elena. You're a happy newlywed, remember?"
• I paste on a smile that feels like broken glass.
• And wonder how long it'll take before there's nothing left of me to break.