The Captive Bride

Chapter 7

Isabella’s POV

The days blurred together after the shower.

Every morning began with my mother’s clipped commands, my father’s booming phone calls, and Sofia flitting in and out with sarcastic commentary to keep me from drowning. Yet even as I smiled through fittings and nodded through tastings, something cold coiled around my spine.

Because the messages didn’t stop.

Every night, a new photo. Me in the library, hunched over a book. Me walking down the staircase, hand grazing the banister. Once, horrifyingly, a shot of me sleeping—my hair fanned across the pillow, my lips parted.

That one nearly sent me into a panic attack.

I triple-checked the locks. Slept with my lamp on. Moved furniture in front of my windows. But every morning, my phone would light up with another reminder: I see you.

And I couldn’t tell anyone.

Not my mother, who was too busy ensuring the Vescari family received the perfect display of wealth and elegance. Not my father, who would have treated it as a declaration of war. Not even Adriano, whose patience felt too heavy a weight to carry.

Sofia knew, of course—she always knew—but even she couldn’t fix it. She just whispered curses under her breath and swore she’d kill him herself if he dared to come close. I envied her bravado.

Mine was crumbling.

By the third week of preparations, the house had transformed into a war camp disguised as a palace. The halls smelled perpetually of fresh flowers, candles, and tension.

One afternoon, I sat in the drawing room with Mama, my brothers, and Adriano’s sister, who had flown in early for the festivities. The table between us overflowed with fabric swatches and crystal goblets for approval.

“Isabella, you’ll walk down the aisle in ivory, not white,” Mama announced, waving a hand as if to dismiss the entire debate. “White washes you out. Ivory softens your features.”

“Mm,” I said noncommittally, twirling the stem of my water glass.

“You could wear a sack and still look like a saint,” said my oldest brother, Matteo, without looking up from his phone. His tone was casual, but his jaw tightened as he scrolled.

“Don’t encourage her to wear a sack,” Mama snapped. “This is a society wedding, not a protest march.”

“Maybe we should ask Isa what she wants,” Luca said, leaning back in his chair. “She’s the one walking down the aisle.”

Everyone looked at me. My throat felt dry. What I wanted? To be anywhere else. With anyone else. Maybe no one at all. But I smiled tightly. “Ivory’s fine.”

Mama beamed, satisfied.

Matteo finally set his phone down. “Adriano’s a good man,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Better than most in this world. You’ll be safe with him.”

The word safe lodged in my chest like a splinter.

Safe from Dante? The photos in my phone suggested otherwise.

That night, I locked my door, sat on my bed, and finally opened the drawer where I’d shoved my phone. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew I’d regret it. But curiosity—or desperation—won.

Another message blinked at me.

Unknown: You’re prettier when you don’t pretend.

Attached: a photo of me from earlier that day, the moment everyone had turned to look at me at the table. My fake smile plastered on. My eyes hollow.

My hands shook.

Me: What do you want from me?

The reply came instantly.

Unknown: Everything.

As the days crept closer, my anxiety grew claws. I snapped at Sofia over trivial things. I barely ate. At fittings, I stared into mirrors and didn’t recognize myself.

My mother called it nerves. My father called it immaturity. My brothers, strangely, noticed most.

One evening, Luca, younger only by a year, cornered me in the library, his broad frame blocking the exit. “You’re quieter than usual,” he said. “And don’t lie to me, Isa. I know you.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

He studied me. “You look like a ghost. If there’s something—anything—you need to say before this wedding, say it now.”

I opened my mouth. The truth clawed at my throat. Dante. The messages. The photos.

But then I pictured the fallout—my father storming into Romano territory with men, guns, blood. My brothers pulled into it. Sofia caught in the crossfire.

I forced a smile. “I’m just… nervous. That’s all.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

Two days before the wedding, the Romano name returned to the dinner table.

“We’ll need tighter security,” my father declared between bites of steak. “The Romanos are unpredictable. I won’t risk them making a scene.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Mama said, dabbing her lips.

“You don’t know Dante,” Father shot back. “That boy’s a viper. He doesn’t care about propriety. If he feels insulted…”

I nearly choked on my water. Insulted. The word rang in my head. Every message I’d received was soaked in that exact sentiment. You think you’re safe. You’re not.

Matteo glanced at me, brows furrowed, as if he’d noticed my hands trembling under the table. I quickly set the glass down.

Sofia, ever the master of timing, cut in with a sigh. “Honestly, Isa could marry a prince, and you’d all still talk strategy instead of happiness.”

Mama swatted her hand, but the tension broke. For the rest of dinner, I stared at my plate, appetite gone.

The night before the wedding, I barely slept. My dreams blurred into nightmares—shadows at my window, footsteps in my room, Dante’s voice curling around my name.

When dawn broke, the house became chaos. Florists, stylists, caterers—an army stormed in, each with orders to execute. I was ushered from shower to vanity to dress fitting, my mother trailing behind with endless corrections.

By noon, I was sealed into the gown. Ivory silk, delicate lace sleeves, a train heavy enough to anchor me to the earth. Nonna’s silver comb glinted in my hair. My reflection looked bridal, ethereal. But my eyes betrayed me. They were wide, glassy, haunted.

Sofia stood behind me, adjusting her own dress. “You look beautiful,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

Because the phone on the vanity buzzed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I reached for it with trembling hands.

Unknown: Lovely. Exactly how I pictured you.

I almost dropped the device. He’d seen me. Again. Here. Now.

“Isa?” Sofia’s voice was sharp.

I shoved the phone into the drawer. “It’s nothing.”

But my stomach told me it was everything.

By evening, the villa was transformed into a dreamscape. Candlelit aisles, ivory roses, golden chandeliers. Guests murmured and laughed downstairs, glasses clinking. Adriano’s family mingled effortlessly with ours.

I sat in the bridal suite, alone at last, my makeup flawless, my gown pressed to perfection, my hands trembling in my lap.

Outside the door, footsteps echoed—bridesmaids, coordinators, relatives bustling. But in here, it was just me and the suffocating silence.

The weight of weeks pressed down. Every photo. Every message. Every whispered reminder that I wasn’t safe.

The phone on the vanity buzzed one final time.

I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t. But my hand moved anyway, like it belonged to someone else.

One new message.

Unknown: The wait is over.

Another buzz.

Unknown: Meet you soon, princess.

The screen burned in my vision. My throat closed.

And in that instant, I knew—this wedding wasn’t going to save me. It was going to deliver me.

Or maybe worse– kill me.