Fabio stepped off midway, leaving the driver to continue toward the address Isadora had given him. Alone in the back seat, she kept her hands folded in her lap, forcing herself to stay calm as the city blurred past the windows. Her stomach knotted tighter with each passing moment until, at last, the car rolled up to what appeared less a house and more an expansive estate.

The grounds stretched endlessly before her. Even from inside the car she could see immaculately trimmed hedges, fountains spraying silver arcs of water, and the kind of stonework that whispered old money. Passing through the gates made it unmistakably clear that entry without permission was impossible.

Security was everywhere but subtle, like an invisible net. The car paused as scanners passed over it; the bodyguards’ IDs were swiftly registered. For Isadora, there was no ID card. Instead, a sleek tablet was held to her face, its silent software taking a facial scan before a gloved hand guided her fingers onto a fingerprint pad. The process was so smooth it felt clinical. Inwardly, she wondered if she was entering a home or a high-end prison.

Yet, despite all the checks, everything moved quickly. The car glided down a long, tree-lined drive, pulling directly into a marble-paved parking area before stopping.

Isadora stepped out slowly. Her heels clicked faintly against the stone, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the place. Her eyes lifted to the building ahead, and for a moment she simply stared.

It wasn’t just a mansion. It was palatial, the largest structure she had ever seen. Its windows glittered like cut crystal beneath the sunlight, its façade so perfectly maintained it seemed unreal.

’How many people live here!’ she thought, standing frozen. She expected the bodyguards who’d accompanied her to lead her further inside, but instead they stepped back and gestured toward two new men approaching from the house.

The pair was like mirror images — tall, dressed in identical black suits and shirts, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. One of them spoke, gesturing toward the grand entrance.

"We’ll be taking you in while they return," he said evenly.

Isadora studied them, noting the sameness of their posture, their measured tone. The effect was unsettling — like dealing not with two men but with one mind split between two bodies.

All she could do was nod and accept. She had made her choice. Going back to her former home was impossible now; Tiberio would find her and her father without difficulty.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into another world.

The foyer gleamed. Light poured down from a chandelier that looked hand-cut from ice, scattering patterns across polished marble floors. Even the air felt different — cool, perfumed faintly with something expensive and unobtrusive. Her shoes echoed softly as she followed the men deeper inside.

The two bodyguards gestured toward the sweeping staircase but did not move to guide her further.

"You can take the elevator and head upstairs. Guila is in charge of the house, and she’ll show you the way," one of them said, their matching tone reinforcing the impression they were a single unit.

’An elevator in a house!’ Isadora thought, still trying to wrap her head around such extravagance as she turned toward where they’d indicated. A brushed-steel door waited at the base of the stairs, discreet yet unmistakably an elevator.

Inside, the lift rose with barely a whisper. When the doors opened, she was greeted by an older woman standing with her head slightly bowed in a gesture that was neither servile nor casual.

"Mr. Dante has informed me. Your room is right beside his, and everything has been prepared," the woman said at once, her voice low but firm. She turned smoothly, expecting Isadora to follow, and led her down a wide hallway lined with muted gold sconces.

At last they stopped in front of a door so large Isadora felt dwarfed by it. The woman opened it and stepped aside.

"My name is Guila. You may refer to me as such. If you need anything, there’s a button near the bed and in various parts of the house — simply press it. You can also use the telephones. You will be given a list."

Isadora tried to listen, but her attention kept drifting over the room. It was vast, easily the size of a small apartment. A sitting area with velvet chairs and a polished writing desk opened onto a bedroom dominated by a bed so large it could have fit ten people with space to spare. The floors gleamed, the curtains whispered as they moved in the breeze from hidden vents.

"Mr. Dante runs everything in the house," Guila continued. "But unless he insists on you dining with him, you may call the chef and request anything you like if the day’s menu isn’t to your taste."

Isadora nodded absently, her eyes roaming over carved crown molding and inlaid wood panels. Her heart beat faster. Living in this level of luxury came with a price — her part of the bargain.

And then there was the marriage. Dante had mentioned it before. She had thought — had hoped — it was a joke. It clearly wasn’t.

"There will also be many lessons I have been instructed to give you, since you will be marrying Mr. Dante, and the last thing he wants is to be embarrassed," Guila said. Her tone carried no condescension, only practicality, like she was stating the weather.

Isadora nodded again. She stood at the center of the room, staring at the immense bed across the space.

"You must be starved. Would you like to eat in the upper dining room, or would you prefer to be served in your room?" Guila asked.

"The dining room," Isadora said immediately, feeling the urge to see more of the house she would now call home.

’One thing is sure... this is much better than being sold to an old pervert,’ she thought, following Guila out. Her stomach clenched with hunger; she hadn’t eaten all day.

************

"Tiberio is here," Fabio whispered into Dante’s ear. Dante nodded, gesturing for him to be let in. Fabio moved without hesitation, pulling open the heavy double doors. A rush of footsteps echoed from the hallway — Tiberio had not come alone.

Fabio stepped aside as the smaller man strode in. Tiberio wore a formal shirt and trousers, a hat set neatly on his head and a cane gripped in one hand. At a glance he might have passed for a gentleman, but the cruel glint in his eyes and the arrogance in his bearing destroyed the illusion.

He was shorter than average, but his presence made it impossible to look down on him. Dark eyes radiated a kind of cold intensity, and the aura around him was heavy, commanding. Five bodyguards followed close behind, moving like shadows, not so much for protection as for show.

Dante did not rise. He remained seated, his composure unbroken, which seemed to needle Tiberio. Without greeting, Tiberio crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair opposite Dante.

Behind him, his bodyguards spread out in a protective arc, their formation deliberate, making a statement more than offering actual defense.