Isabella’s POV
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, the cold of the marble floor seeping into my heels as I wait for him. *Him*. The man who has the power to make me feel like I’m everything and nothing at once. The man I want to hate, but who makes me ache in ways I’ve never known before. Alessandro Ricci. Mafia boss. Billionaire. My husband in name. My captor in reality.
I glance at the sleek, black clock on the wall. It’s late-almost midnight. My stomach churns with a mixture of anticipation and dread. I’ve been good. I’ve been following every rule in our contract. The one that binds me to him, in ways that make me feel like I’m more his possession than his wife.
The door opens with a soft click, and there he stands, framed by the shadows of the hallway. His eyes lock on me, dark and penetrating, and I feel that familiar surge of heat and terror flood my veins. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit, dark and imposing, his presence filling the room in a way nothing else can.
“You’re still here.” His voice is low, controlled, as if he’s surprised I haven’t fled yet. But I know better. I can’t escape him. I wouldn’t even if I tried.
I try to speak, but my mouth feels dry, my throat tight. The words won’t come.
“You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?” He steps into the room, and I flinch involuntarily, but he doesn’t seem to notice-or maybe he does. His gaze flickers with something like amusement. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, barely strong enough to meet his gaze.
He smirks. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t even say it with conviction?”
I swallow hard, the words coming out in a shaky rush. “I’ve been a good girl. I did everything you told me to.”
“Everything?” His tone sharpens, like a whip cracking in the air. “Did you?”
I know what he’s referring to. The contract. The collar. The body checks. The endless submission that’s drained every ounce of strength from me. I nod, but it’s not enough for him.
“Show me.” His words are a command, not a suggestion. “You’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?”
I look at him, and the air between us seems to thicken, heavy with tension. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I hesitate, fighting the urge to run, to scream, to lash out. But I’ve learned better than to test him.
Without a word, I unbutton my blouse, letting the fabric slide off my shoulders. His eyes follow every movement, his gaze darkening, filled with something I can’t name. When I stand before him, exposed and vulnerable, he steps closer, his hand coming to rest on my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his.
“Good girl.” He murmurs it as though it’s a reward, but it feels like a cold promise. He doesn’t touch me with affection. No, he touches me like I’m something he owns, something he can bend to his will without resistance.
But it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. I might be his by contract, but I’m not his in the way he wants me to be. I can’t be.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I whisper, before I can stop myself. My voice trembles, but I can’t lie to myself any longer. “I don’t want to be your good girl, your toy.”
His hand tightens on my chin, his thumb brushing across my lower lip as his eyes darken. “You think you have a choice, Isabella?”
The words should terrify me, but they don’t. I’ve heard them before. I’ve heard them in the quiet moments when he’s holding me close, whispering them like a promise and a threat all at once.
I take a breath, gathering the courage to face him. “I do have a choice. I can leave you. I can be free.”
A cold chuckle escapes his lips, and he leans down, his mouth brushing against my ear as he speaks. “You can try, sweetheart. But I’ll always find you.”
I pull away, my heart racing, my hands trembling at my sides. I’m terrified. Terrified of what he might do, of what I might do. But there’s something else, something I can’t name, that keeps me rooted to this place. To him.
He tilts my chin up again, and this time, his lips meet mine. It’s not gentle. It’s not tender. It’s a claim, a marking, a reminder of what I am to him.
When he pulls back, I can’t breathe. His words are low, dangerous, and they sink into my skin like a brand.
“Remember this, Isabella. You don’t leave me. Not now. Not ever.”
I nod, my lips still burning from his kiss. I want to say something, anything to break the suffocating tension in the room, but I can’t. There’s nothing left to say.
Except… “I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and heavy, like a knife poised over my heart. His eyes flash with something darker than before, something colder, more calculating.
He takes a step back, his gaze never leaving mine. His silence stretches on, unbearable, until he finally speaks.
“Pregnant?” His voice is barely a whisper. “You didn’t think I’d notice?”
I swallow hard, my body shaking as I wait for his next move. His silence is deafening, but then, the corner of his mouth curls into a wicked smile.
“Well then, Isabella,” he says, his voice silky smooth. “We have a problem.”
I stare at him, my heart racing, my mind whirling. What now? What happens next?
And then, just as quickly as it all started, the door slams shut behind him, leaving me in the emptiness of the room, alone with my thoughts-and the storm that’s brewing.