Prologue

The air in the lavish penthouse felt thick, suffocating, like a weighted blanket woven from silk and regret. Amelia Thorne stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her breath fogging the pristine glass for a fleeting second before vanishing. Below, the city sprawled like a glittering, indifferent beast, its lights mocking the darkness that had swallowed her whole. It was all so extra, so aggressively opulent, and she hated every expensive, gleaming inch of it. Seriously, who needed this much marble? Her own apartment, now a distant memory, had been cozy, smelling faintly of linseed oil and cheap coffee, a sanctuary where her art had truly lived. This place felt like a museum, a mausoleum for her future.

Her fingers, usually stained with paint or charcoal, nervously traced the delicate silver locket hidden beneath the collar of her ridiculously expensive dress. It was a simple piece, a relic from a life that felt like eons ago, a quiet anchor in the hurricane her existence had become. Her hazel eyes, usually warm and expressive, were now shadowed, reflecting the cold, sharp edges of the cityscape. She felt a blush creeping up her fair skin, a familiar betrayer, even though there was no one around to witness her internal meltdown. It was just her, the city, and the crushing weight of a decision that wasn't hers.

“Ready, miss?” A soft voice, smooth as polished obsidian, sliced through the quiet. Amelia flinched, turning sharply. Elena, Dante’s personal assistant, stood in the doorway, her expression a careful blend of deference and something unreadable. Elena was always impeccably dressed, her dark hair pulled back in a severe, perfect bun. She looked like she knew all the secrets of the universe and was just waiting for you to mess up. Amelia nodded, her throat suddenly dry. Ready? Was anyone ever ready for this? Lol, no.

The contract. The word itself felt like a brand, seared onto her soul. A binding agreement, not just for a marriage, but for a life she hadn't chosen, a life she couldn't even comprehend. It had been her family's only option, a desperate lifeline thrown by a man whose name was whispered in hushed, reverent, or terrified tones throughout the city. Dante Volkov. The CEO. The rumored Mafia boss. Her soon-to-be husband. The irony was so thick, she could choke on it. Her, Amelia Thorne, an aspiring artist whose biggest worry was selling enough canvases to cover rent, now entangled with a man who probably had more bodyguards than she had followers on her art Insta.

She remembered the first time she'd seen him. Not in person, but a fleeting glimpse on a news report, a slick, cold image on a massive screen in a crowded coffee shop. His jet-black hair was styled with surgical precision, his ice-blue eyes piercing through the pixelated image, making her feel seen even through a screen. He'd been talking about some corporate takeover, but the vibe? Oh, it screamed 'don't mess with me unless you've got a death wish.' And now, she was supposed to marry him. Marry a man who looked like he could orchestrate a global financial collapse before breakfast and still have time for a gym sesh. It felt like a bad rom-com plot, only way more terrifying and with significantly less witty banter.

Elena gestured towards the door, a silent command. Amelia's stomach twisted into a knot tighter than a forgotten earbud cord. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic flutter in her chest. It wasn't just the fear of Dante, the unknown, the sheer power he exuded like an invisible force field. It was the absolute finality of it all. Her dreams, her autonomy, everything she thought made herher, was about to be subsumed into this new, gilded existence. The thought made her want to scream, to lash out, to just… run.

But running wasn't an option. Her family's fate was tied to this absurd, chilling contract. Their debts, a mountain she couldn't possibly move, had been leverage, a cruel twist of fate that had pushed her onto this path. She’d tried to fight it, of course. Pleaded, argued, even cried in desperation, but the cold, hard reality of their situation had been undeniable. They were drowning, and Dante Volkov was the terrifying, beautiful shark offering a single, perilous raft.

The short walk down the plush hallway felt like an eternity, each step echoing the death knell of her old life. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of expensive lilies and unspoken power. She could hear the murmur of voices, deep and resonant, from the room ahead. His people. They were always around, a constant, watchful presence. She’d seen them, these men in dark suits, their gazes sharp, their movements economical, like predators. They were loyal to him, to the Volkov name, and their loyalty was absolute. It was unsettling, bordering on terrifying.

As Elena pushed open the massive double doors, a wave of light and sound washed over Amelia. A small gathering, but the room pulsed with an intensity that belied its size. Her gaze, despite her best efforts, was immediately drawn to him. Dante. He stood by a fireplace, not even facing her directly, yet his presence was a gravitational pull she couldn't resist. His tailored dark suit fit him like a second skin, emphasizing the broad shoulders, the muscular physique. A heavy signet ring gleamed on his right hand, a tiny detail that screamed 'power'. He turned, slowly, and her breath hitched. Those ice-blue eyes, sharper than any blade, found hers across the room, and a shiver, cold and electrifying, ran down her spine.

There was no warmth in his gaze, no softening around the edges. Just an intense, almost predatory assessment. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, every insecurity laid bare. He was 32, a decade older than her, but the gap felt like light-years. He was a force of nature, a silent storm, and she was just… Amelia. Ordinary, artistic, kinda clumsy Amelia. How was she supposed to survive this? A tiny, rebellious spark flickered within her, a stubborn refusal to be completely consumed. She might be a pawn, but she wouldn't break. Not yet. She met his gaze, holding it for a beat longer than fear dictated. This was it. Her new reality. And deep down, amidst the terror, a terrifying, exhilarating thought buzzed: what if this terrifying, forbidden world held something she never expected? What if this contract, meant to shackle her, somehow set her free? Her palms were clammy, her heart a frantic drum solo against her ribs, but she walked forward, into the gilded cage, into the unknown. It was giving major 'what did I sign up for?!' vibes, and honestly, she had no clue. 😬

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