Episode 3

Julia

My head seems to spin.

The room around me closes in, as if the walls were approaching, swallowing everything. His voice still echoes in my mind, cold, direct, without a hint of emotion.

"You were already mine before you even set foot here."

My stomach churns. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.

But I won't let him see that.

I won't falter.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk to the table with the greatest composure I can muster. If he wants to play the hot villain, then he'd better watch out.

My butt barely touches the chair before I grab the napkin, shaking it in the air as if I were shooing away a ghost. But not just any movement—I shake the cloth with absurd, unnecessary, theatrical force.

His gaze narrows.

Dante Blackwood observes me with an impassive expression, but I notice the subtle frown on his brow. He clearly doesn't understand what the hell I'm doing.

Great.

Confusion is a good start.

He keeps his eyes fixed on me. This man has a strange way of looking, as if he sees much more than he should, as if he were analyzing me, studying me.

Well, two can play at that game.

I calmly hold the cutlery, stroking the fork between my fingers as if it were a weapon. Then, before even touching the food, I fire:

"I just want to know… why me?" My voice comes out firm, but I can't hide the hint of acidity. My eyes challenge him. "Why did you choose me for this little horror show of yours?"

The silence stretches between us.

Dante doesn't answer immediately. He just stares at me, as if deciding how much it's worth telling me.

His hands rest on the table, large, strong, dangerous.

His long fingers slide slowly over the wood, as if feeling its texture, as if calculating something.

My chest tightens.

He just keeps watching me, his dark eyes studying me as if I were an enigma to be deciphered.

My fingers close around the fork.

I don't like this. This controlled calm, this way he has of looking at me as if he already knew all my answers before I even opened my mouth.

Finally, he leans slightly forward. Just a little, but enough for me to notice.

"Why you?" He repeats my question, his voice low, drawling. Lethal.

I stare at him, waiting.

"Because you were the most viable option."

My stomach lurches.

""Most viable option"?" I repeat, laughing humorlessly. "How nice, Mr. Blackwood. That was almost a compliment."

He doesn't react to my irony. He just keeps staring at me, expressionless.

"Your family carries ancient blood. Ancient enough to be compatible with mine."

I choke on my own air.

"What was that?"

He drums his fingers against the table.

"I needed a wife. You were chosen. Simple as that."

His words hit me like a slap.

Ancient blood? Compatibility? It sounds like I'm in the middle of a genetic experiment, not a marriage.

I feel a growing fury rise in my throat, hot and corrosive.

"You talk as if I were…" My voice trembles, but not with fear. With hatred. "As if I were an animal chosen for breeding!"

His eyes gleam for an instant. A strange gleam. Almost predatory.

"If I thought that… we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The meaning behind his words sends shivers down my spine.

The tension in the room becomes suffocating.

Dante brings the wine glass to his lips and drinks slowly, unhurriedly. As if my revolt were just an insignificant detail.

But I know he's enjoying this. The bastard knows he's in control.

And that just makes me want to provoke him even more.

"Good to know." I say, dropping the cutlery with a loud clatter against the plate. "Now all you have to do is tell me how many children you want and in how much time."

This time, a small, dangerous smile appears on his face.

"Many."

My heart skips a beat.

"And I don't usually wait."

I feel a shiver run down my spine. I should be terrified. But all I feel is anger.

And a fear that refuses to make me back down.

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