THE BRIDE HE NEVER WANTED

ELENA

I didn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dante's face. The way he'd looked at me like he was solving a puzzle. The way his thumb had felt against my lip. The cold certainty in his voice when he'd called me a liar.

By the time sun filtered through the curtains, I'd given up trying.

I showered and stood in front of Sophia's closet, staring at clothes that cost more than my rent. Everything was designer. Everything was perfect. Everything screamed old money and sophistication.

I pulled on a simple dress and tried to remember how Sophia held herself. Shoulders back. Head high. Emotion locked away where no one could see it.

I could do this. I just had to keep pretending for a little while longer. Then I'd figure out how to get out of this mess.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"Mrs. Castellano?" A woman's voice. "Breakfast is ready."

Mrs. Castellano. That was me now. My stomach turned.

"I'll be right down," I called out.

The dining room was as impersonal as the rest of the house. Long table, expensive chairs, windows overlooking perfectly manicured gardens. Dante sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet, a cup of coffee in front of him.

He looked up when I entered. His eyes tracked me as I crossed the room and sat down at the opposite end of the table.

"Good morning, wife."

"Good morning."

A woman I assumed was the housekeeper brought out plates of food. Eggs, toast, fresh fruit. My stomach was too twisted to eat, but I forced myself to take a few bites.

Dante watched me the entire time.

"We have a lunch meeting today," he said finally. "With the Robertsons. They're potential investors in my European expansion."

"Okay."

"You'll need to be charming. Smile at the right times. Laugh at Theodore's terrible jokes. Make Margaret feel like you're interested in her boring stories about her grandchildren."

"I know how to make small talk."

"Do you?" He set down his tablet. "Because yesterday at the reception, you called Antonio Rossi by the wrong name. Twice."

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. "I was nervous."

"You called him Anthony. His name is Antonio. You'd know that if you'd actually met him before, which according to your family's records, you have. Multiple times."

I set down the fork carefully. "I misspoke."

"You also didn't recognize Margaret Robertson yesterday when she spoke to you. She's been a friend of your family for years. She attended your mother's funeral." He stood and walked toward me. "Want to explain that?"

"I don't remember everyone I've met."

"You remembered everyone else. Just not the people you should have known well." He stopped beside my chair. "Strange, don't you think?"

I looked up at him. He was standing close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I could see the grey had flecks of blue in it. Could see the exact line of that scar on his jaw.

"What are you accusing me of?" I asked.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. Yet." He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. "I'm giving you a chance to tell me the truth. Because when I find out on my own. And I will find out.I won't be nearly this patient."

His face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat coming off him, smell his cologne. My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"There's nothing to tell," I said.

"Liar." He said it softly, almost a caress. Then he straightened and walked back to his seat. "We leave in two hours. Wear something appropriate."

He picked up his tablet like the conversation hadn't happened.

I forced myself to finish breakfast even though I couldn't taste anything. Then I went back upstairs and tried not to panic.

He was testing me. Every interaction, every conversation. He was gathering evidence. And I was failing.

I needed help. Someone who knew this world and could tell me how to navigate it.

Marco. Dante's second-in-command. I'd met him briefly at the reception. He seemed less cold than Dante, and according to Sophia's notes, he'd been Dante's friend since childhood.

Maybe he could give me advice. Or at least tell me how much trouble I was actually in.

I found him in Dante's office downstairs, going through files.

"Mrs. Castellano," he said, straightening. "Is there something you need?"

"I wanted to ask you about the lunch today. I'm nervous about meeting new people."

His expression softened slightly. "The Robertsons are easy. Just be polite and let Dante do most of the talking."

"That's it?"

"That's it." He studied me for a moment. "Are you alright? You seem tense."

"It's just a lot. The wedding, the new house, everything changing so fast."

"That's understandable." He hesitated. "Can I give you some advice?"

"Please."

"Don't lie to Dante. About anything. He values loyalty above everything else, and lies are the fastest way to lose his trust." Marco's voice was serious. "Once he decides you're a threat, there's no coming back from that."

My mouth went dry. "I'm not lying about anything."

"Good. Keep it that way." He returned to his files. "The car will be ready at noon."

I left the office feeling worse than when I'd entered.

Two hours later, I was sitting in the back of the Mercedes next to Dante, wearing a dress that cost more than my car used to, headed to a lunch where I'd have to pretend to be someone I wasn't.

Again.

"Remember," Dante said as we pulled up to the restaurant. "Smile. Be charming. And if you're not sure about something, stay quiet and let me handle it."

"Got it."

"And Elena?"

My blood turned to ice. He'd said Elena. Not Sophia.

I turned to look at him slowly.

His expression was calm, almost pleasant. But his eyes were cold steel.

"Yes?" I managed.

"That is your real name, isn't it? Elena?"

The world tilted. My vision blurred at the edges. He knew. He actually knew.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I whispered.

"Yes, you do." He reached over and took my hand. To anyone watching, it would look affectionate. But his grip was firm, unyielding. "You talk in your sleep. Last night, you kept saying 'Victor.' And this morning, when the housekeeper called you Mrs. Castellano, you flinched. Like you'd forgotten that was supposed to be your name now."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

"So here's what's going to happen," Dante continued, his voice perfectly calm. "We're going to go into this restaurant. You're going to smile and play the perfect wife. And when we get home, you're going to tell me exactly who you are and what the hell you think you're doing."

"And if I don't?"

His smile was dangerous. "Then I'll find out on my own. And trust me, you don't want that."

The driver opened the door.

Dante got out, still holding my hand, and pulled me with him.

We walked into the restaurant together, his hand on my back like we were a normal married couple.

But I could feel the leashed anger in his touch.

I had until after lunch to figure out what to tell him.

And I had absolutely no idea what that was going to be.