Chapter 1: A Life Drowning in Bills

The Unveiling

The massive double doors swung inward with a soft, almost imperceptible whoosh, as if even the air itself was bowing to the presence within. Amelia Thorne stepped across the threshold, her heart doing a chaotic drum solo against her ribs. The room was not what she’d pictured for a “wedding.” It was more like a highly exclusive, super chill, but also super tense, executive lounge. Plush, dark furniture, walls adorned with abstract art that probably cost more than her entire art school tuition, and a discreet bar glinting with crystal. And then, there he was, standing by the fireplace, a silent, unmoving statue carved from power and expensive fabric.

Dante Volkov. He turned slowly, those ice-blue eyes piercing through her like laser beams, the kind that see all your insecurities and then some. No cap, his vibe was just… intense. It wasn’t just the height, the sculpted physique visible even beneath the bespoke suit, or the meticulously styled jet-black hair that looked like it never dared to be out of place. It was the aura, thick and almost tangible, that screamed ‘I run things, don’t even think about it.’ Amelia felt her fair skin prickle, a blush threatening to creep up her neck. She hated that. She hated how easily her body betrayed her internal meltdown.

Around him, a handful of men, dressed in equally sharp suits, stood like silent sentinels. Their gazes were quick, assessing, then dismissive. Like she was just another piece of furniture being moved into the room. One of them, older, with kind eyes that seemed out of place in this cold setting, offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. Amelia gave a tiny, awkward smile back, then wished she hadn’t. It felt pathetic, a desperate attempt to find a friendly face in a sea of stone.

Dante’s gaze held hers, an unnerving silence stretching between them. It wasn't hostile, not exactly. It was more like a scientist observing a new specimen, trying to figure out its properties, its weaknesses. She felt a familiar burn in her chest, a mix of fear and a defiant spark. She wasn’t a specimen. She was Amelia Thorne. Or at least, she used to be. The silver locket beneath her absurdly expensive dress felt heavy, a reminder of the life she’d left behind, a life where she actually had a name that meant something beyond a debt repayment.

“Amelia.” His voice was deep, resonant, like gravel smoothed by centuries of running water. It wasn’t a question, just a statement, a confirmation of her presence. It sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with being cold. Okay, maybe a little bit cold. He walked towards her, his movements fluid, predator-like, closing the distance between them with unnerving speed. Every step amplified her internal scream. Her brain was just like,Abort! Abort!

The Contractual Vows

He stopped barely a foot away, his height towering over her, casting a shadow that felt almost physical. The scent of him hit her then: expensive cologne, something clean and sharp, mixed with a faint, underlying hint of something musky, undeniably male. It was surprisingly intoxicating, a fact that made her deeply uncomfortable. She clenched her hands at her sides, digging her nails into her palms, anything to ground herself. “Dante,” she managed, her voice a reedy whisper, barely audible even to herself.

His lips, thin and firm, curved slightly, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a brief acknowledgement of her utterance. “The registrar is ready.” He gestured to a small table near the window, where a stern-looking woman sat, flanked by two more of Dante’s men. On the table, two documents lay open, stark white against the dark wood. Not wedding vows, but contracts. Of course. This whole thing was a transaction, pure and simple. A business deal wrapped in the most unsettling kind of obligation. Periodt.

The "ceremony" itself was a blur of legal jargon and stifled breaths. The registrar, a woman whose face was devoid of any emotion, droned through the necessary legalities. Amelia’s hand trembled as she signed her name, her penmanship usually so fluid, now jagged and uncertain. Each stroke felt like a piece of her soul being inked onto the paper, a final surrender. She barely registered Dante’s signature, though she felt the sheer force of his presence next to her, calm and utterly composed, as if this was just another Tuesday. Which, for him, it probably was. For her? It was the end of the world as she knew it. And no, she was not fine.

Then came the rings. A small, velvet box was presented, and Amelia’s breath hitched again. Inside, nestled on black satin, was a diamond the size of a small asteroid. It glittered, almost blindingly, under the soft light. It wasn’t just a ring; it was a statement. A statement of wealth, of power, of ownership. She felt her eyes sting, but she blinked back the tears. Crying now would be weak, and she absolutely refused to give him that satisfaction. She might be terrified, but she wasn’t a simp. Not for him.

Dante took her hand, his fingers long and strong, enveloping hers. His touch was electric, not gentle, not rough, just… decisive. He slid the enormous ring onto her finger. It felt heavy, a cold, beautiful shackles. He didn't look at her face, only at the ring, as if checking its placement. “There,” he murmured, his voice low. It wasn't a romantic declaration, just an acknowledgment that the deed was done. Amelia withdrew her hand quickly, almost instinctively. It felt like her skin was buzzing where he’d touched her, an uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation.

He then took a simpler, heavy platinum band from the box, slipping it onto his own finger. No fanfare, no emotion. Just a cold, functional gesture. This was it. She was married. To a literal Mafia boss. Her life was officially a dark romance novel with way too much suspense and not enough sunshine. She wanted to scream, to run out, to call her bestie and tell her all the wild tea, but she couldn't. This wasn't a story she could share. This was her reality, a cage of gold and fear.

The Gilded Cage

The ride from the penthouse to Dante’s mansion felt endless, punctuated only by the low hum of the luxury car and the suffocating silence between them. He sat opposite her, his gaze occasionally flickering to her, then back to the city lights streaking past the tinted windows. She stared straight ahead, determined not to meet his eyes, fiddling with the new, heavy ring on her finger. It felt alien, cold against her skin. She missed her old, cheap silver rings, the ones she wore when she painted, when she felt like herself. Her phone, which she’d been allowed to keep but knew was probably monitored, sat dead in her purse. Like her hopes and dreams, tbh.

The mansion was even more imposing than she’d imagined. A fortress of dark stone and glittering glass, nestled amidst sprawling, manicured grounds. The gates swung open silently, revealing a long, winding driveway illuminated by soft, discreet lighting. It was beautiful, undeniably, but beauty had never felt so suffocating. As the car pulled up to the grand entrance, a phalanx of silent, stone-faced men emerged from the shadows, their presence a stark reminder of Dante’s world. They weren't just security; they were his army.

Dante exited first, a commanding presence even in the dim light. He offered no hand, no gesture of chivalry. Amelia followed, feeling small and exposed. The air here was different, heavier, scented with old money and secrets. The front door, massive and carved with intricate designs, opened as if by magic. Inside, the foyer was a cavernous space of polished marble, soaring ceilings, and a grand staircase that spiraled upwards like something out of a period drama. A huge crystal chandelier glittered overhead, casting diamonds of light across the pristine surfaces.

“Welcome to your new home, Amelia,” Dante’s voice echoed in the vast space. The words, meant to be welcoming, felt like a pronouncement of her imprisonment. Home. It was anything but. It was a gilded cage, a fortress built to contain her, to protect her, but most importantly, to control her. Her throat tightened. She just nodded, unable to articulate the whirlwind of emotions churning inside her. It was giving major 'hostage situation, but make it bougie' vibes.

Elena, ever efficient, appeared as if from nowhere, a polite smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mr. Volkov, your study has been prepared. And Mrs. Volkov, your chambers await.” The title, ‘Mrs. Volkov,’ felt like a slap. It wasn't her. It was some other person, a character in a play she hadn't auditioned for. Amelia flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Dante’s gaze, sharp as ever, caught it.

“Show Amelia to her room, Elena,” he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. “Ensure all her… needs are met.” He gave the word ‘needs’ a loaded emphasis that made her skin crawl. Like she was a pet, or a project. She wanted to yell that her needs included freedom, her easel, her old friends, but the words died in her throat. She just nodded, offering Elena a forced smile.

As Dante turned and walked towards a set of heavy, dark wood doors, presumably leading to his study, Amelia felt a strange mix of relief and something else. A flicker of disappointment? No, that was insane. She was terrified of him. Yet, a tiny part of her, the part that hated being ignored, felt a strange pang. She quickly squashed it. Delulu thoughts, Amelia. Get a grip.

A Room of Her Own, Yet Not Her Own

Elena led her up the grand staircase, her heels clicking softly on the marble. The hallway upstairs was just as extravagant, lined with more art and heavy, antique furniture. Amelia kept her gaze down, trying to process the sheer scale of it all. Her apartment had been tiny, filled with her canvases and paint fumes. This place was like a five-star hotel, only way more menacing.

“This will be your room, Mrs. Volkov,” Elena said, pushing open another set of double doors. Amelia stepped inside, and her jaw almost dropped. The room was massive, bathed in soft, warm light from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meticulously kept garden. A king-sized bed dominated the center, draped in silk sheets, and plush pillows. There was a sitting area, a walk-in closet larger than her old bedroom, and a marble ensuite bathroom that looked like it belonged in a spa. It was stunning, objectively. But it wasn’ther.

Her small suitcase, the one containing her few treasured possessions, sat neatly by the bed. Elena pointed to a panel on the wall. “This controls the lighting, climate, and the integrated entertainment system. There is a direct line to my office, and to Mr. Volkov’s private line, should you require anything.” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “You are free to explore the main living areas of the mansion and the grounds. However, Mr. Volkov’s study and private wing are strictly off-limits.”

The unspoken rules hung in the air, heavy and absolute. She was a trophy wife, a captive, allowed to roam within her designated territory but never to trespass. Amelia just nodded, trying to absorb it all. “Thank you, Elena,” she mumbled, her voice still quiet. Elena offered another polite, unreadable smile. “Dinner will be served at 8 PM in the main dining room. Mr. Volkov expects your presence. Is there anything else?”

Amelia shook her head. There was everything else, but nothing she could ask for. When Elena finally left, the silence in the enormous room was deafening. Amelia walked over to the windows, gazing out at the perfectly manicured garden, then beyond, to the distant city lights. She was close, yet impossibly far from anything familiar. She felt a profound sense of isolation, a stark contrast to the buzzing, vibrant energy of her old neighborhood. Her old life felt like a dream, hazy and unattainable.

She sat on the edge of the silk-draped bed, the softness a cruel mockery of her discomfort. Slowly, she reached into her small suitcase, pulling out her well-worn sketchbook and a box of charcoal pencils. They felt familiar, comforting, a tangible link to her past self. She flipped through the pages, seeing sketches of cityscapes, street performers, faces filled with ordinary joy and sorrow. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d drawn them. Could she still create here? In this gilded cage, under the watchful eyes of invisible guards and a terrifying husband?

Her mind drifted to her family. Her parents, burdened by medical bills and failed investments. Her younger sister, Maya, so full of life, so bright, whose future had been jeopardized by their crushing debt. The thought of them, safe, their debts cleared, was the only thing that kept her from completely spiraling. This was for them. This sacrifice, this terrifying new existence, it was all for them. But the cost felt astronomical. She was drowning, not in bills anymore, but in a new kind of debt, one that demanded her very soul.

Dinner with the Devil

As 8 PM approached, Amelia changed into another ridiculously expensive dress Elena had laid out, a sleek, dark blue silk that clung to her curves in a way she wasn’t used to. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair, usually a wavy, carefree mess, had been subtly styled by one of the mansion staff, making her look polished, almost unfamiliar. She felt like an imposter, playing a role in a high-stakes drama. The diamond ring felt even heavier, a constant, sparkling weight. She tucked her silver locket deep beneath the silk, a small act of rebellion, a refusal to let go of who she truly was.

The dining room was vast, with a long, gleaming mahogany table that could seat twenty, but tonight, only two places were set at one end. Dante was already there, seated at the head, looking impossibly regal. He wore a different suit, just as sharp, just as dark. He rose as she entered, a gesture of politeness that felt utterly robotic. Her stomach churned. This was going to be excruciating. It was giving 'awkward first date, but with way more danger and no escape' vibes.

“Amelia,” he acknowledged, his voice neutral. “Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. She slid into it, the heavy fabric rustling softly. A silent butler appeared, pouring wine into crystal goblets. The meal began, a parade of exquisitely prepared dishes she barely tasted. Filet mignon, delicate vegetables, a rich, savory sauce. It was all gourmet, a far cry from her usual instant ramen and late-night pizza. But it tasted like ash in her mouth.

“Your family’s debts have been cleared,” Dante stated, breaking the uncomfortable silence, his voice flat. He didn’t look at her, instead focusing on cutting his meat with surgical precision. “A clean slate. As per our agreement.”

Amelia’s head snapped up. Relief, sharp and potent, washed over her, making her lightheaded. It was done. Her family was safe. The weight she’d carried for so long, the suffocating burden of their financial woes, had finally lifted. For a moment, pure gratitude overwhelmed her fear. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Dante.”

He finally met her gaze, his ice-blue eyes unreadable. “There is no need for gratitude, Amelia. It was a transaction. You uphold your end, I uphold mine.” His words, cold and sharp, immediately extinguished the flicker of warmth within her. Of course. She was foolish to think otherwise. This wasn't kindness; it was a business deal, inked in blood, or at least, in her freedom.

“What is my end, exactly?” she asked, her voice gaining a surprising edge. She knew the broad strokes, the 'be my wife, be seen,' but she needed details. She needed boundaries, even if they were gilded. She needed to know the rules of this new game, because she was officially playing for keeps.

Dante put down his fork, his movements precise. He wiped his lips with a linen napkin, then leaned back in his chair, those piercing eyes fixed on her. “Your role is to be Mrs. Volkov. To present a respectable image. To be present when required. To entertain. To travel when necessary.” He paused, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher in his gaze. “And to be mine. Completely.”

The last two words hit her with the force of a physical blow. Her breath caught in her throat. “To be yours?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. The implication was clear, terrifying. It wasn’t just about public appearances. It was about possession, about her body, her very being. The color drained from her face. She knew this was a possibility, of course. This was a marriage, after all. But hearing it, so baldly stated, so utterly devoid of any pretense of affection or choice, it was a whole different level of dread.

“Yes, Amelia.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes still locked on hers, a magnetic force pulling her in even as she wanted to recoil. “In every way. You are my wife. In this world, that comes with certain expectations. From me. From others.” His gaze dropped to her lips for a fleeting second, sending a jolt through her. It was a possessive, predatory look, and a shiver ran down her spine, both of fear and an unwelcome, dangerous thrill. Her cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red.

“And… if I refuse?” she dared to ask, her voice trembling, but holding a fragile defiance she didn’t know she possessed. Her heart hammered, warning her that this was a dangerous question. But she had to know. She had to test the boundaries, however small.

Dante’s expression didn't change, but a subtle hardening around his eyes sent a chill through her. “Refusal is not an option, Amelia. You signed the contract. Your family is indebted to me. And in this world, debts are always paid. In full.” His voice remained calm, almost soft, but the underlying threat was crystal clear. It wasn’t just about her family’s financial security anymore; it was about her compliance, her very soul. She was trapped, a butterfly pinned to a velvet board, and he was the one holding the needle. The air crackled with unspoken tension, and Amelia felt a terror unlike anything she'd known, mixed with a tiny, rebellious spark. She was his, but she would not break. Not yet. She met his gaze, holding it, her hazel eyes reflecting a defiance that surprised even herself. This was her first real fight, and it was just beginning. It was going to be a long night, and honestly, she wasn't ready to find out what "in every way" actually meant. 😬

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