Isadora slowly entered her room before slamming the door shut behind her. She was already typing away on her phone, her fingers frantic, before she even reached the bed. Her eyes scanned the screen as she searched for every piece of information she could possibly find on the Bellini family.

What kind of people are his parents? she wondered. They had to be monsters, she thought, if their son had turned out so cold. Her steps faltered at the foot of her bed. She froze, staring hard at the glowing screen, and most especially at the line of information she had just uncovered.

Deceased.

Both of Dante’s parents were dead—and they had been dead for a very long time.

"Twenty years," Isadora whispered aloud, her voice barely a breath as her eyes devoured the details of the report.

A tragic accident. Head-on collision. A drunk driver had swerved into their lane and crashed directly into their car. They were taken to the hospital but died just minutes after arrival.

She read the words again, her skin breaking out in chills, her bones turning cold. Something about it gnawed at her. Dante always had an entourage of cars in front and behind him. The Bellinis were powerful. It was impossible to imagine that his parents hadn’t had the same level of protection.

Slowly, with unease twisting her stomach, she searched for other popular members of the Bellini family. Her eyes locked on a few names in particular, and her brows drew together.

"Furie Bellini. Namira Bellini. Waren Bellini," she mumbled aloud as she read. The information clearly listed them as Dante’s father’s siblings.

"They’re rich!" she gasped, falling back onto the bed, her phone still in her hand as she read that they had seized control of a massive part of Bellini Corp after the deaths of Dante’s parents.

I’m guessing they are the ones I have to be careful of, she thought bitterly. She tossed her phone aside and sprawled flat on her back, staring at the ceiling in heavy silence.

At first, she had been hesitant. She had even sketched out dozens of plans in her mind, ways she might delay, act infertile, resist. But after the events of her very first morning in the house, with her heart still thumping far too loudly in her chest, Isadora made up her mind.

The best thing for me to do is to get pregnant, have his baby, and leave, she decided grimly. The thought burned in her head. She was keenly aware that she could have been killed the moment she had woken up, and then what? She wouldn’t have been able to explain any of it in the afterlife.

Her face scrunched up in frustration, sour at the reality that she would have to endure the entire process—pretend, be more enthusiastic than she ever wanted to be.

Groaning aloud, she seized a pillow and buried her face in it, muffling a scream into the fabric. It brought no relief. She tried again, yelling into the soft cotton, but nothing soothed the heaviness twisting in her chest. Just as she was about to let out another muffled cry, a knock came at the door.

It had to be Guila, bringing her food. Isadora forced herself upright, hastily fixing her expression, pretending all was well until she could be alone again.

The meal was almost impossible to swallow. Her paranoia gnawed at her until she indirectly asked Guila if she had made certain that nothing was wrong with the food.

"I made sure the chef tasted it multiple times, just to be sure," Guila said with an understanding look, her eyes reflecting that she knew exactly why Isadora asked.

Once Guila left, Isadora forced herself to eat what she could, then pushed the plate aside and rose to her feet, restless. But before she could gather her thoughts, another knock came. She opened the door, surprised to see Guila again. The woman stepped in, gathered the plates, and packed them neatly onto a trolley before leaving once more.

"I’m guessing I can’t just leave," Isadora sighed under her breath, realizing that Dante had succeeded in scaring her into second-guessing every move she made.

"Leave?" Guila repeated, her face marked with slight confusion as she handed over a folded sheet of paper.

It was a schedule, a timetable written out in neat lines.

"You have different Instructors," Guila explained, "and they are well known—and discrete."

Isadora’s eyes swept down the list.

Dining etiquette coach at 9. Performance coach at 12. Elocution at 2... Her brows knitted tightly. She would need to look some of these things up. Her gaze continued downward.

Image consultant at 4. Acting instructor by 9 the next day—an entire day lost—before everything resets and begins again.

"Ehm... I’m going to have this many teachers?" Isadora asked in shock, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Guila nodded. "Yes. Some instructors will only come once, like the fertility awareness instructor," she added matter-of-factly. "Master Bellini made the list himself."

Isadora’s forced smile froze stiff on her face. "How nice of him," she muttered under her breath, her sarcasm sharp, though Guila ignored it and went on.

"You will also be taken to fittings. But Master Bellini emphasized that your acting skills must come first, since he has already secured a role for you in a movie."

Isadora’s mouth dropped open. Her body stiffened as though a heavy weight had suddenly dropped onto her chest.

"What?" she gasped, shaking her head as if to make sure she hadn’t misheard. "He told you this personally?" Her voice trembled with both doubt and a flicker of desperate hope.

"He sent me a file with all his expectations clearly highlighted. Fabio, his personal assistant, most likely typed it out," Guila replied, providing all the details she knew.

Isadora nodded slowly, though her eyes were distant, glassy, as if her body was present but her mind had wandered far away.

"Your lessons will take place in whatever rooms your instructors choose. They start at 9," Guila concluded, her words an indirect reminder that Isadora had better be ready. With that, she turned and left.

Isadora sat heavily at the edge of her enormous bed, staring blankly at the door.

It’s just a few lessons, she told herself. How hard can it be?

But by the time she would endure those lessons for even a single day, she would forge a new pact with herself: to get pregnant and escape this accursed house as quickly as possible.