The morning light slipped through the curtains like a thief, but it couldn't steal away the chill that settled in Isabella's chest. She hadn't slept. Every creak of the floor outside her door felt like a threat. Every breath reminded her she wasn't free.
She sat on the edge of the bed in a white nightgown she didn't remember changing into. Someone had undressed her while she slept—if she had slept at all.
The door clicked.
She flinched.
It opened slowly, and a woman stepped inside. Tall, severe, dressed in black. Her hair was pulled into a perfect bun, and her eyes held the dead calm of someone who'd seen too much.
"I'm Liza. I've been assigned to you."
"Assigned?" Isabella asked.
"You'll need help adjusting to life here. You are now under Mr. Alphamanio's protection. That comes with... responsibilities."
"What kind of responsibilities?"
Liza gave a faint smile. "You'll see."
---
Downstairs, the mansion came alive.
Men in suits walked the halls like soldiers. The air buzzed with quiet power. Isabella felt like a ghost moving through a world built on blood and silence.
She was escorted to a long dining table where Drystan sat at the head, dressed in a dark silk shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms inked with symbols she didn't recognize. He was sipping coffee, calm as a god at war.
"Sit," he said without looking at her.
She obeyed. The chair scraped the floor like a scream.
"I trust you slept well," he murmured.
"I didn't."
His lips curved slightly. "Good."
Isabella's heart twisted. "Why are you doing this to me?"
Drystan looked up, eyes pinning her in place. "Because your presence makes the monsters inside me quiet. I didn't know I could feel anything anymore until you."
She blinked. "That's not love. That's obsession."
He chuckled—low, dangerous. "Darling, I never promised you love."
Then his hand reached across the table and slid a small black velvet box toward her.
"Open it."
She hesitated.
"Now."
Her fingers shook as she lifted the lid. Inside was a ring—pure black, shaped like a spade. Sharp edges. Cold metal.
"What is this?"
"A promise," Drystan said. "That you're mine. Starting tonight, you'll wear it. And everyone will know."
"I'm not yours," she whispered.
He leaned forward slowly. "You are, Isabella. Every breath you take. Every shiver I cause. Every thought you try to hide—I already own it. You just haven't accepted it yet."
Her chest heaved. Her voice cracked. "I hate you."
He smiled, devilish and sure. "Not yet."