The Billionaire's Rebellious Bride

~HAILEY POV~

Dinner felt nervous and uncomfortable. The quietness was serious, filled with unspoken words and a feeling of danger hiding behind the sound of silverware.

The table seemed endless, dark and shiny, set for four but big enough for twenty. At dinner, my father, my mother, Santino, and I were the four people at the table.

Santino sat at the head of the table like a king. His black suit blended into the shadows, he sat straight, and his eyes were harsh and piercing.

When he looked at me, it felt like a sharp pain.

The butler...too polite, too stiff....pulled out my chair as if he expected me to resist. I didn't. Not because I wanted to sit, but because my father's hand twitched, and I knew what would happen if I refused.

I lowered myself into the seat, my back stiff, my palms tangled tight in my lap.

Across from me, my father looked calm...always calm...but I knew better. Tonight, the wrinkle in his forehead was deeper, carved in irritation.

He hated this arrangement. Hated not sitting at the head of the table. He wanted to be king, too.

My mother sat beside him, weak and still, like a porcelain doll that would crack if someone breathed too hard.

I looked at her for a long moment, searching for some spark of rebellion, some tiny shred of solidarity. As always, I found nothing.

The chandelier hummed above us, glass catching the light in a thousand tiny bits, dazzling and oppressive. My head ached under it.

"So..." I cleared my throat, feigning boldness I didn't feel. "Does anyone else think the chandelier is trying too hard?"

The butler's hand jerked, almost dropping the wine. My mother's eyes widened like I'd just sworn in church. My father's jaw clenched, the muscle twitching like a live wire.

But Santino? Santino didn't move. His face stayed carved in stone, unreadable, until he finally spoke. His voice was smooth, rich, deceptively calm.

"It's Italian. From the 1800s. Priceless."

I stabbed my bread roll with unnecessary force, crumbs scattering across the plate. "Still looks like a disco ball."

"Hailey!" My father's voice cracked like a whip, fast enough to cut skin.

I bit down on my cheek to stop the smirk from escaping. Just a drop of rebellion...but rebellion all the same.

Santino tilted his head, regarding me like one might regard a restless animal. Curious if it would snap or simply keep barking.

"You're bold, Miss Carter."

"At least I don't pretend to like carrot soup." I pushed the bowl away with puffy disgust. "It tastes like boiled crayon."

The butler went stiff. My father's jaw ticked, his eyes flaring.

Santino lifted his glass and sipped his wine with infuriating calm, eyes locked on me the whole time. "You'll hurt the feelings of the chef."

"Good." I let my spoon clatter back into the bowl. "Maybe he'll stop making orange water."

My father's voice dropped low, a growl under his breath. "Hailey. Behave."

My heart pounded, but anger gave me fire. "Why? I didn't choose this dinner. Or this marriage."

The words cracked the silence wide open.

Santino didn't flinch. His eyes pinned me, cold and stormy, steady as if nothing else in the room existed but me. I held his stare, my skin burning under the effect of it, until the air itself felt like it would shatter.

Finally, he spoke. His words sliced through the table like a knife.

"What do you want, Hailey?"

The room froze. Even my father, who had been halfway into some pretentious monologue about business deals, stopped mid-word.

My mother blinked rapidly, her lips parting like she wanted to intervene, but no sound came out.

I blinked, chest tight, blood rushing in my ears. "What do you mean?"

Santino leaned forward, elbows resting on the pristine tablecloth. His movements were slow, deliberate, and dangerous.

The kind of predator who didn't need to lunge....just leaning closer was enough to remind you he could. He lifted his glass again, took another measured sip. His eyes never left me.

"From this marriage. What do you expect?"

The word burst out before I could choke it back. "Freedom."

The truth felt harsh and hard to accept. My nails pressed into my palms under the table, helping me deal with my father's angry stare. "But since I can't have that, I'll just settle for making your life miserable."

The butler fumbled, a spoon clattering loudly to the floor. My father's face turned a furious shade of red. My mother's hand twitched on the tablecloth, the tiniest plea for me to stop.

And Santino?

Santino smirked. Slow. Dangerous. A guarantee dressed as amusement.

"Then, little wife," he said, his voice low enough to crawl into my bones, "I expect dinner won't be the only thing you make bleed."