The Captive Bride

Chapter 6

Isabella's POV

The morning of my bridal shower began with my mother’s voice echoing through the hallway like a royal decree.

“Isabella! Up! The stylists will be here in twenty minutes!”

I groaned into my pillow. The silk sheets were warm, my body heavy with the sort of lethargy that no amount of caffeine could cure. The past week had been a blur of fittings, tastings, and endless phone calls from distant relatives who suddenly remembered my existence. Each conversation carried the same sugary-sweet congratulations and the underlying reminder that this was happening. The wedding was no longer a storm on the horizon—it was the rain already hitting the windows.

By the time I made it to my vanity, the stylists had already taken over. Brushes, palettes, curling irons—an entire battlefield of beauty products. My mother flitted around them, inspecting, correcting, instructing.

“You’ll wear the blush dress,” she decided without looking at me, already rifling through my wardrobe. “Soft. Elegant. Appropriate.”

The blush dress—silk, fitted at the waist, falling just below my knees—hung like a pale whisper among darker gowns. I let them zip me into it, my movements mechanical. Sofia wandered in halfway through, still in pajamas, clutching a mug of coffee like it was her lifeline.

“You look like a porcelain doll,” she said around a sip. “If a doll was also plotting her own funeral.”

I gave her a flat look in the mirror. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said, sitting on my bed with a dramatic sigh. “Totally fine. Definitely not about to marry someone you barely know to avoid marrying someone you’ve never met but already fear.”

The corner of my mouth twitched. “You make it sound so romantic.”

She grinned. “That’s me. The poet.”

Sofia twirled beside me, rose silk swishing. “Smile, princess. If you look tragic, Aunt Rosa will attack with pearls.”

“I am tragic,” I muttered, biting a macaron that tasted like chalk.

Mama swept in—Dior and purpose. “The Vescari delegation arrives in twenty minutes. Shoulders back. Sip, don’t gulp. And try to look like you’re not being executed.”

“Such realistic goals,” I whispered.

Two hours later, we were in the car on our way to the venue. The shower was being hosted at one of my father’s partner’s estates—a sprawling villa with gardens that looked stolen from a Tuscan postcard. The moment I stepped inside, the air filled with the scent of fresh roses and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over tables draped in blush linens, the entire place shimmering in a way that felt almost unreal.

Women turned to look at me the way hawks notice movement. Older wives in tailored dresses, their diamonds catching the light; younger fiancées assessing me like I was competition for a crown none of us had asked for. Adriano was already there, standing near the back with a glass of champagne in his hand, talking to my father. He caught my eye and smiled, warm and reassuring.

I told myself to focus on that—on him—on this safer alternative to the nightmare I’d been avoiding.

Gifts began. A tower of satin hatboxes from Aunt Rosa—silk slips I pretended to admire. Nonna pressed a silver comb into my palm. “Wear it,” she said, steel softening. “For luck.”

Sofia handed me champagne. “Color in your cheeks. Pretend to like people.”

“I like you.”

“Tragic taste,” she said.

We giggled. For a second the nausea loosened. Then the quartet shifted to something darker, and my skin prickled—like eyes tracing my spine.

A server appeared with a silver tray, setting down a tiny pastry box tied in black ribbon. “For the bride.”

“It’s not cake time,” Sofia said, suspicious.

“Compliments of the kitchen.” His eyes stayed down.

I opened the box. Inside: a sugared almond split neatly in half. Nestled between the shells lay a sliver of glossy black—a micro-SIM card. Beneath it, a note no bigger than my thumb:

Save this number. Now.

My fingers trembled.

I switched the card. The phone lit up. A message arrived instantly.

Unknown: Good girl.

My stomach tightened. Sofia noticed the shift in my expression immediately.

“Problem?” she murmured as we took our seats at the head table.

“Just… nothing.” I slipped the phone out under the tablecloth, my heart already beating faster.

Unknown: That color suits you. Wear it again for me.

I froze. The blush dress. I hadn’t posted it anywhere, hadn’t even taken a photo. My eyes darted around the room instinctively. There were at least fifty people here, staff moving between tables, photographers capturing candids.

It could be a coincidence. But I knew better.

Sofia’s gaze sharpened. “Isabella, who is that from?”

“No one,” I said too quickly, shoving the phone back into my clutch.

I spent the next half hour smiling on autopilot, opening gifts wrapped in gold paper, nodding at toasts I didn’t hear. Every time I glanced at the clutch, my pulse spiked. I told myself not to look again.

The phone buzzed anyway.

Unknown: You haven’t touched the champagne yet. Smart.

My fingers went cold around the stem of the glass. I hadn’t—couldn’t—drink in public settings like this. Too risky. Too easy to let something slip. The fact that he knew—that he’d noticed—felt like a hand closing around my throat.

I scanned the room again, slower this time. No one was looking directly at me. No man in an expensive suit lurking in the shadows. Still, my skin prickled as though someone’s gaze was burning through it.

When the servers brought out the cake, Sofia leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “Isa, you’re pale. What’s going on?”

I swallowed. “Just—don’t ask. Not here.”

She gave me a look that promised she’d be asking later.

The shower ended in a blur of polite goodbyes and careful hugs. Adriano kissed my cheek before leaving, telling me he’d see me tomorrow for another round of planning. His presence should have been comforting. It wasn’t. The moment his car pulled away, I felt exposed again.

At home, I slipped upstairs before anyone could stop me. The clutch was still in my hand, my phone inside. I stood in front of my vanity for a long moment, debating whether to open it. Finally, I pulled the phone out.

Another message waited.

Unknown: Pretty morning, wasn’t it?

A photo followed.

It was me.

From earlier that day, standing in my bedroom, adjusting the necklace my mother had insisted I wear. My curtains had been open just enough to let in the light. I remembered glancing toward the garden briefly, thinking nothing of it.

My stomach turned to ice. Someone had been outside. Someone had been watching.

I dropped the phone on the vanity like it burned. For a long moment, I just stared at it, my reflection in the mirror pale and wide-eyed. My mind raced through possibilities—staff? One of my father’s men? No. This was him. It had to be.

A knock at my door made me flinch so hard my necklace caught against my skin.

“It’s just me,” Sofia’s voice said.

I opened the door and pulled her inside before anyone could see.

She took one look at me and her teasing vanished. “Isa. What happened?”

I shoved the phone into her hands. Her eyes flicked over the screen, widening with every line.

“Holy—” She cut herself off, lowering her voice. “This is him? The Romano guy?”

I nodded once.

She paced, muttering curses under her breath. “You need to tell your father.”

“I can’t.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “If I tell him, he’ll see this as an attack. He’ll retaliate. And then it won’t just be me in the middle—it’ll be everyone.”

Her mouth tightened. “So you’re just going to let him… what? Keep doing this?”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sat at my vanity again. The phone was back in my hand. I told myself not to respond—never to respond—but my thumb hovered over the keyboard anyway.

Finally, I typed: Why are you doing this?

The reply came almost instantly.

Unknown: Because you think you’re safe.

My breath caught.

Unknown: You’re not.

The next line landed like a whisper against my ear.

Unknown: Sweet dreams, futura sposa.

I locked the phone and shoved it into the drawer, burying it under scarves. But even as I crawled into bed, the weight of it sat in my chest.

A drawer wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would.

And for the first time, I wondered if this wedding—this fragile arrangement with Adriano—wasn’t just a way to escape Dante Romano… but the thing that was going to put me directly in his path.