The Captive Bride

Chapter 5

Isabella’s POV

The house felt… different.

Not in the way of moving furniture or redecorating, but in the way a room feels when everyone inside has decided to pretend they’re fine. My father had been in rare spirits since Adriano’s visit, his shoulders less tight, his voice more relaxed. Sofia—my cousin and partner-in-survival—had been practically bouncing when she heard the news.

“You’re lucky,” she whispered to me over espresso the next morning. “Adriano is gorgeous. And sane.”

Lucky. I wasn’t sure I’d go that far. But compared to the shadow of Dante Romano—who I’d still never met—Adriano was a soft landing. Or so I told myself.

Within forty-eight hours, the villa became a carousel of wedding preparations.

Bolts of silk in pale ivory and champagne shades lined the upstairs hallway. My aunt Rosa argued with the seamstress about beadwork while my grandmother, tiny and formidable, supervised from a chaise longue like a queen.

“You’re too thin,” Nonna declared, eyeing me critically. “We’ll have to fix that before the ceremony.”

I smiled faintly, used to her sharp brand of affection. “I’m fine, Nonna.”

“You will eat,” she ordered, already snapping her fingers for the maid to bring a tray.

I let the hum of activity wash over me—seamstresses measuring my waist, florists debating whether peonies or roses were more appropriate for a Vescari-Moretti wedding. I was less a person and more a centerpiece everyone wanted to get right.

But underneath all the bustling warmth, a thread of unease kept tugging.

It started with the flowers.

We were in the library, my mother and I, flipping through a thick album of bouquet designs. I had my finger on a page of delicate white roses when a knock came at the door.

A maid entered, carrying a small, unmarked envelope. “For Miss Isabella,” she said.

My mother barely looked up as I took it.

Inside was a single piece of card stock. Thick. Expensive. The kind that didn’t bend easily.

In neat, dark ink, the words read:

How dare you insult me like this?

No signature. No date. Just the sentence, like a blade slipped between my ribs.

I stared at it for too long, my pulse loud in my ears. My mother noticed. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lied quickly, sliding the card back into the envelope. “From a friend.”

Later, in my room, I read it again. And again. Until the letters seemed to shift on the page, curling into something darker.

I didn’t have to be told who it was from.

It wasn’t the kind of tone an old school friend would take. It wasn’t Adriano—he didn’t speak like this. And it definitely wasn’t from my family.

It was from him.

Dante Romano.

The man I wasn’t supposed to marry anymore. The man my father had told me to forget.

And yet here he was, in my life without ever stepping into the room.

The second message came two days later.

I was in the sitting room, having tea with Sofia, while she gleefully dissected which guests might faint when they saw Adriano in a tux.

The maid entered again, tray in hand.

Another envelope.

This one contained a photograph.

Not of me exactly—though I was in it—but of the upstairs balcony of the villa, taken from across the gardens. In the picture, I was leaning over the railing, looking out at the bay. My hair was loose, the sunlight catching on it.

Across the bottom of the photo, in the same dark ink, was scrawled:

You think I can’t reach you?

I dropped it into my lap, my hand trembling so slightly I hoped Sofia wouldn’t notice.

“You okay?” she asked.

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

But I wasn’t tired. I was awake in a way that felt wrong—every sound sharper, every shadow suspicious.

That night, I locked my bedroom door.

It was ridiculous—there were guards at every gate, cameras on every wall. The villa was a fortress. And yet… I didn’t feel safe.

I pulled out the envelope and the photograph, placing them side by side on my desk.

Two messages. No phone calls. No demands. Just… a warning. A promise.

How dare you insult me like this?

You think I can’t reach you?

He hadn’t said his name. But he didn’t need to.

I wondered if my father had received anything. If maybe this was happening on both sides, in two separate rooms of the same house. But if he had, he wasn’t telling me. And if I told him… I wasn’t sure what he’d do.

The next morning, I put on my game face.

Fittings continued. My mother insisted I try on an heirloom veil, its lace so fine it felt like a spiderweb across my hair.

Adriano came to the villa in the afternoon, bringing with him a jeweler to discuss the engagement ring.

He was polite. Steady. The kind of man who filled a room without crowding it. He didn’t touch me, except for the brief brush of fingers when I tried on a sapphire-and-diamond setting.

“It suits you,” he said simply.

I nodded, managing a small smile. But in the back of my mind, I was wondering if Dante knew Adriano had been here. If he’d been watching from some hidden vantage point.

The third message came that evening.

Not in an envelope this time.

It was slipped under my bedroom door while I was brushing my hair.

A single scrap of paper, torn from something larger, with just four words written in that same precise hand:

I don’t share.

I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the brush slipping from my fingers.

It wasn’t even a threat this time—it was a declaration. Possessive. Final.

I didn’t know what to do with it. Part of me wanted to tear it up and pretend it never existed. Another part wanted to shove it under my father’s nose and demand answers.

Instead, I tucked it into the back of my desk drawer, along with the others.

By the end of the week, the villa was drowning in wedding energy. The guest list was finalized. The cathedral was booked. I’d been fitted for three separate dresses—the ceremony gown, the reception gown, and the “after” gown my mother refused to describe.

Family poured in from across the country. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years filled the halls, their laughter echoing against the marble. My uncles drank too much wine at dinner, slapping Adriano on the back like he was already one of us.

I smiled where I had to. Sat still where I had to. Played the part.

But at night, when the noise faded and the corridors fell silent, I could feel him out there. Watching. Waiting.

Sometimes I’d think I saw movement beyond the gardens—a shadow where no shadow should be. Once, I could have sworn I heard footsteps in the east wing, but the guard said it was “just the wind.”

The fourth and final message came the night before my bridal shower.

I’d just stepped out of the bath, steam curling around me, when I noticed it on my vanity.

No envelope this time either. Just the card, face-up, waiting.

Enjoy your little party, bella. I’ll be seeing you soon.

This time, my knees actually went weak.

He’d been in here.

Inside my room.

While I was in the bath.

I checked the locks—they were still engaged. No sign of forced entry. But the card hadn’t appeared by magic. Someone had brought it in.

Someone had let him in.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Every creak of the house made me flinch. Every brush of wind against the window felt like fingers.

By morning, I’d decided on one thing: I wouldn’t tell my father. Not yet.

Because deep down, I knew.

Telling him wouldn’t stop Dante Romano.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what scared me most.