CHAPTER 1
1384 Words
THE CONTRACT IN WHITE
Serafina learned the weight of silence long before she learned the meaning of marriage.
It began the morning her mother laid the dress across the bed.
White silk, heavy and luminous, stitched with delicate embroidery that caught the light like frost. It looked too pure to touch, too innocent to belong in the house it rested in. Serafina stood in the doorway, her fingers curled tightly around the frame, watching the fabric breathe softly as the curtains shifted. The dress was beautiful. That was its cruelty.
She was eighteen years old.
The house smelled of lilies and polished marble, the kind of scent reserved for celebrations and funerals. Outside, cars arrived in quiet procession—black sedans with tinted windows, men stepping out in tailored suits, women adorned in jewels that glittered without warmth. The city had already begun to whisper. Everyone knew a wedding was coming. No one asked whether the bride wanted it.
Her mother didn’t look at her when she spoke.
“You’ll ruin it if you wrinkle the fabric,” she said, smoothing the dress with careful hands. Her voice was steady, practiced. “Stand properly.”
Serafina obeyed. She always did.
She had learned, over years of carefully measured behavior, that resistance only prolonged discomfort. Silence, on the other hand, could shorten it. Silence could make adults uncomfortable enough to change the subject. Silence could be mistaken for acceptance.
Her father entered the room without knocking.
He smelled of expensive cologne and control. His presence filled the space, pushing the air outward until Serafina felt smaller simply by standing there. He surveyed her the way one surveyed an investment—checking for flaws, for risks.
“You look thin,” he said.
“I eat,” Serafina replied quietly.
“That wasn’t a question.”
Her mother’s hands stilled on the dress. A warning. Serafina swallowed whatever response tried to rise and lowered her eyes instead.
Her father nodded, satisfied. “Good. You’ll need to look delicate. Alessandro likes that.”
Alessandro.
The name settled into her chest like a stone.
She had met him twice.
The first time, he had kissed her cheek with cool politeness, his hand resting on her lower back a second longer than necessary. His eyes had been sharp, appraising, already bored. The second time, he had said nothing to her at all—only spoke to her father, discussing shipping routes, numbers, influence. She had stood beside them, silent, ornamental.
Now she was to be his wife.
No one had asked her if she loved him. No one had even asked if she liked him. Love was not currency in her family; obedience was. Marriage, she was told, was about stability. Alliances. Protection.
Her father finally turned to her fully. “This marriage secures our future. Don Alessandro Moretti is a powerful man. You should be grateful.”
Grateful.
Serafina nodded once, because that was expected. Because gratitude was safer than fear.
In the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her hair was pinned back, her face carefully painted to appear softer, younger, untouched. They had erased any sharpness, any sign of resistance. She looked like a girl being offered as proof of loyalty.
The ceremony took place in a cathedral too large for intimacy.
Light filtered through stained glass, painting the stone floors in colors that did not belong to the moment. The pews were filled with men who ruled shadows and women who learned to smile beside them. Every smile was rehearsed. Every blessing came with an unspoken clause.
Serafina walked down the aisle alone.
Her father did not offer his arm. This was not a gesture of love—it was a transaction, and she was already being delivered. Her heels echoed against stone with each step, a countdown she could not stop.
Alessandro waited at the altar.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair touched faintly with silver. He wore black, as if even his wedding day could not persuade him to dress as anything other than a threat. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady and impersonal.
He did not smile when she reached him.
He examined her the way one examines a possession finally acquired.
The vows were spoken around her, words about devotion and unity that felt like a language she did not understand. When it came time for her to speak, her voice did not shake. She had practiced calm. She had perfected it.
“I do,” she said.
The ring was heavy. Gold, thick, unyielding. It slid onto her finger like a shackle disguised as jewelry.
Applause filled the cathedral. The empire approved.
At the reception, Serafina stood at Alessandro’s side, her arm resting lightly against his, her smile flawless. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Deals were made over champagne and laughter. Her name changed hands easily—wife, bride, Moretti—as if she were a title rather than a person.
When Alessandro leaned down to speak to her, his breath brushed her ear.
“Do not embarrass me,” he said softly.
Her smile did not falter. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
That night, the mansion swallowed her whole.
It stood on a hill overlooking the city, all glass and stone, its lights burning like watchful eyes. Inside, everything gleamed—floors polished to mirrors, walls adorned with art too expensive to feel real. The silence was thick, deliberate.
This was her home now.
The bedroom was enormous, the bed positioned like an altar at its center. Candles burned low, casting shadows that stretched and twisted. Serafina stood near the window, her back straight, her hands folded carefully in front of her.
Alessandro closed the door behind them.
The sound was final.
He removed his jacket with unhurried precision, placing it neatly over a chair. He did not rush. He did not pretend tenderness. There was no ceremony to this part—no illusion of romance.
“You will learn,” he said, his voice calm, almost bored, “that obedience makes life easier.”
Serafina stared at the city lights beyond the glass, her reflection pale and ghostlike staring back at her. She did not cry. She did not speak.
That night, she learned that pain could be quiet.
She learned that walls could listen.
She learned that survival was not about escape—it was about endurance.
In the days that followed, the rules were established.
She was allowed to leave the house only with permission. She was never to question business. She was expected to attend events, to dress beautifully, to remain silent unless spoken to. Disobedience was met with correction. Correction was not always visible.
The mansion became a place of careful movement. She memorized which floors creaked, which doors closed too loudly. She learned to read Alessandro’s moods by the sound of his footsteps, the tension in the air when he entered a room.
And always, there were men watching.
One of them stood closer than the others.
Luca Romano did not look like a man who belonged in the shadows. He was too solid, too present. He spoke little, but when he did, others listened. He was always near Alessandro—during meetings, dinners, punishments. He did not smile. He did not boast.
Serafina noticed him the way one notices a locked door: instinctively, cautiously.
Their eyes met only once in those early days.
It was brief, accidental. She had dropped a glass at dinner, the sound sharp against marble. Alessandro’s irritation had been immediate, his hand tightening around her wrist beneath the table. She had lowered her head, bracing herself.
Across the room, Luca watched.
He did not intervene. He did not look away.
There was something unsettling in his gaze—not hunger, not pity, but awareness. As if he were cataloging details others chose not to see.
That night, alone in her room, Serafina stared at the white dress folded carefully away in the wardrobe. It no longer looked innocent. It looked complicit.
She understood then what the marriage had always been.
Not a promise.
Not a union.
A contract—written in silence, signed in white, and enforced with fear.
And Serafina Moretti, eighteen years old, learned the most important rule of the empire:
Survive first.
Feel later.
- Writer
