His to Break

Chapter 1: Chains of Gold

The wedding dress was heavy—too heavy for someone walking into a graveyard.

Rose Valenti stood in front of the grand mirror, the satin fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Her veil, laced with tiny pearls, shimmered under the golden lights of the bridal suite. Her mother’s hands fluttered over her shoulders, adjusting the gown’s neckline like this was a celebration.

It wasn’t.

It was a transaction. A sacrifice.

And she was the offering.

“You look beautiful,” her mother whispered, voice trembling as if she believed the lie.

Rose didn’t respond. Her lips were painted a soft rosewood pink, her hair curled into delicate waves, her face made to look like a doll’s. But her eyes—her eyes were hollow.

In less than an hour, she would become the wife of Damian Moretti, the most feared man in the eastern syndicate. A man whose hands were soaked in blood and whose eyes looked through people like they were tools to be used—or discarded.

She had never spoken more than ten words to him.

He didn’t need words. He had power. Fear. Silence.

And now, her.

The cathedral bells echoed across the estate. It was time.

The ceremony was a blur—golden candlelight, murmured vows, a priest who didn’t dare look Damian in the eyes. When the moment came to speak, Rose opened her mouth and whispered the words like they burned her tongue.

“I do.”

Damian didn’t flinch. His dark suit hugged his tall frame like it was stitched to his skin. He said the same two words with bored finality—as if he were sealing a business deal, not claiming a bride.

He didn’t kiss her.

The car ride back to the Moretti estate was silent.

The man beside her radiated danger. Damian leaned back against the leather seats, one hand resting casually on his thigh, the other holding a tumbler of scotch. He hadn’t said a word since they walked out of the church.

Rose stared at her wedding ring—platinum, flawless, cold.

“So this is it?” she finally asked, her voice a whisper against the hum of the engine. “We just pretend this is normal?”

His eyes slid to hers—dark, cold, unreadable.

“You’re mine now. That’s all that matters.”

The estate was massive, but felt like a mausoleum. Rose was escorted to a grand bedroom—hers, apparently. Damian wouldn’t be joining her.

Not tonight. Not for many nights to come.

She stood in the center of the room, staring out at the moonlit garden, hands trembling at her sides. Somewhere behind her, the door shut with a dull finality.

No one had to lock it.

She already knew she couldn’t leave.

Rose Valenti Moretti. A name forged in blood and silence.

She had just married a man who hadn’t touched her, hadn’t smiled at her, hadn’t even acknowledged her as more than property.

And still, he owned her.

Body. Name. Future.

She closed her eyes and exhaled.

One day, she promised herself, I will leave this place.

But for now, she would survive.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Six Years of Silence

Six years.

Seventy-two months.

Over two thousand nights alone in a bed too large for one.

Rose had learned early that the silence in the Moretti household was not peaceful—it was calculated. Measured. Designed to remind her of her place.

She was the wife.

But not the woman in Damian Moretti’s life.

That role belonged to Elena Ferraro.

Rose had only met her once—four months into the marriage. She was coming down the grand staircase when she saw a tall, stunning brunette step out of Damian’s study, adjusting her lipstick in the hallway mirror.

Her dress had been wrinkled. Her hair mussed.

And her smile? Victorious.

They had locked eyes for only a second. Long enough for Rose to understand everything. Damian hadn’t even bothered hiding her.

He didn’t need to. What was she going to do? Walk away?

Rose never confronted him. She didn't cry or scream.

No—she went cold.

It was safer that way.

She learned to live among shadows. She spent her days painting, reading, or wandering the estate’s many rooms like a ghost. The staff pitied her in silence. Damian saw her less and less.

When they did speak, it was brief.

“You’ll be at the gala tonight,” he’d said once, not even looking up from his papers.

“I wasn’t invited,” she replied flatly.

“You don’t need to be. You’re my wife.”

A title, nothing more.

He gave her credit cards and a wardrobe filled with designer gowns, but never a conversation. Never a touch. Not even a kiss.

Yet whenever she stayed out too long…

Whenever she spoke to another man just a little too kindly…

He noticed.

Oh, he always noticed.

One night, a year into the marriage, she caught a glimpse of them—Damian and Elena—outside the wine cellar. He had her pinned against the wall, his mouth on her throat, hands greedy and rough.

Rose didn’t make a sound. She just watched.

Her heart didn’t break.

It calcified.

But the worst part wasn't Damian's affair.

It was the fact that she still felt something for him.

She hated herself for it.

Even in his cruelty, his control, his coldness—he haunted her. The rare times he touched her hand in public, the way he stood too close, the heat of his gaze across the dinner table—those small moments were enough to make her body ache, even if her soul screamed.

He was magnetic.

Dangerous.

And utterly indifferent to the damage he left in his wake.

Now, six years later, Rose stood before the mirror once again—only this time, she wasn’t wearing a wedding gown.

She wore black slacks, a tailored blouse, and a look in her eyes Damian had never seen before.

Resolve.

The divorce papers lay in her handbag. Her lawyer was waiting. She would hand them to Damian today.

She would end this gilded nightmare.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d begin to remember who she was before she became a ghost.

End of Chapter 2

Bonus Scene: Damian & Elena – “The Mistress”

The penthouse apartment in downtown Bellmare reeked of wealth and lust. Marble floors, silk sheets, and expensive wine—all the things Elena Ferraro had grown used to in the six years she’d shared Damian Moretti’s bed.

But tonight, something was off.

Damian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning between his fingers, untouched scotch in the crystal glass beside him. His jaw was tight. His silence even tighter.

Elena leaned against the kitchen counter in nothing but one of his shirts, her legs bare, hair tousled from the last round of sex that had left her breathless—but not satisfied.

With him, she was never satisfied.

Only addicted.

“Are you going to keep brooding or come back to bed?” she purred, running a hand through her hair.

He didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the skyline, but his mind was elsewhere.

Her smirk faded. “Let me guess. Wife trouble?”

That got his attention.

Damian turned slowly, eyes narrowing, the cold edge of steel in his stare.

“Elena,” he said, voice quiet but sharp, “don’t mistake the space I give you for freedom.”

She shivered. Not out of fear—out of pleasure. That tone. That danger. It was what drew her to him in the first place.

Still, she pushed. “I just don’t see why you keep her around. It’s been six years. She’s never warmed to you. You clearly don’t care for her—”

“I own her, she's mine ,” he interrupted, voice low, lethal. “That’s all I need.”

Elena stepped closer, dragging her fingers along his chest. “You don’t touch her. You barely speak to her. What kind of wife is that?”

“The kind who knows her place.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, unexpectedly, a flicker of something crossed Damian’s face.

Not guilt. Not affection.

Something colder.

Something like… distraction.

Elena paused. “She’s getting to you, isn’t she?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “She delivered the divorce papers this week.”

That made Elena laugh—sharp and disbelieving. “She grew a spine after all these years.”

He didn’t laugh. He just stared down into his glass, as if the scotch could answer the question he wouldn’t say out loud.

“She won’t leave,” he muttered. “She doesn’t get to.”

Elena raised a brow. “Why not? You’ve barely looked at her in years.”

“I don’t lose what’s mine. She is mine and always will, since the day she married me.”

Elena stepped back, her amusement fading. There it was again—that cruel, possessive, obsessive glint in his eyes. The one that scared her a little more than she liked to admit. She knew is wasn’t going to end well.

Even when he didn’t want someone, Damian Moretti didn’t let go. He is stubborn. He likes things going his way. Even a small change causes him to lose his temper

End of Bonus Scene