Continuation 2
1170 Words
The Husband in Shadows
The fire had burned low by the time Damiano returned from the balcony. He stubbed out the cigarette with practiced precision, his expression unchanged, his movements calm, detached. Bella hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, the train of her gown pooled like spilled moonlight around her.
He looked at her, and though his face betrayed little, she felt the weight of that gaze press into her like an iron brand.
“You should change,” he said simply. “You won’t sleep in that.”
The words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind either. They were matter-of-fact, spoken as if he were addressing a servant instead of his wife.
Bella swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Where, where should I go?”
His brows lifted faintly, as if the question itself was strange. “This is your room now. My room. You belong here.”
The words struck her, sharp and final. You belong here.
Her father’s warning whispered in her ears again: This is survival.
Damiano crossed the room, opening a wardrobe carved from dark wood. He pulled out a silk robe, pale ivory against his hand, and laid it neatly on the bed beside her. “Change. Rest.”
Bella’s fingers itched to grab the robe, to shed the suffocating lace gown that had shackled her all day. Yet she didn’t move. She couldn’t not with him standing so close.
Perhaps he sensed her hesitation, because he leaned slightly, his voice low, roughened by something she couldn’t name. “I’m not here to hurt you, Isabella. Not tonight.”
Not tonight.
The promise was supposed to comfort, but instead it chilled her. If not tonight, then when?
Her lips trembled before the words spilled. “Why me?”
It was out before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked, almost breaking the silence of the room like glass. She looked up at him, her eyes searching, pleading. “Why did it have to be me?”
For the first time, his mask faltered.
Damiano’s jaw tightened. His gaze flickered away, toward the fire. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he drew in a slow breath, steady, controlled, as though considering whether she even deserved the truth.
Finally, he spoke. “Because your father owed me. Because alliances are currency, and you are the price.”
Her heart sank like stone.
Her hands clenched in her lap, the diamond ring heavy on her finger, a shackle disguised as love. She had suspected, but hearing it from his mouth cut deeper than she imagined.
“You hate me for it,” he added, his tone unreadable.
Bella blinked at him, stunned. Hate? She hadn’t dared to name the emotion yet, but hearing him say it aloud made it real. “I don’t know you enough to hate you.”
The faintest curve touched his lips not a smile, not amusement. Something else. Something darker. “You’ll know me soon enough.”
He turned, moving toward the dresser, loosening the buttons of his shirt as casually as if she weren’t there, as if this were any ordinary night. The firelight brushed against the hard lines of his chest, scars faintly visible across his skin, maps of battles she could only imagine.
Bella tore her gaze away, heat flooding her cheeks not from desire, but from the overwhelming invasion of his presence, the reminder that they were now bound in body as well as in name.
She stood abruptly, clutching the robe, her gown rustling as she retreated toward the bathroom. Behind her, she swore she felt his eyes following, though he said nothing.
Inside the bathroom, she leaned heavily against the door once it clicked shut. The mirror reflected a pale, haunted bride, her eyes rimmed red with unshed tears. She tugged at the pins in her hair, watching the curls collapse around her shoulders, watching her crown fall piece by piece into the sink.
She stripped the gown with shaking hands, the weight of it sliding off her like a shroud. When she pulled the robe over her skin, she exhaled, as though finally able to breathe. But when she caught her reflection again, nothing had changed. She was still caged, still marked with his name.
When she emerged, Damiano was seated in a leather chair by the fire, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. He didn’t look up immediately, only swirled the amber liquid as though lost in thought.
Bella lingered by the door, unsure, clutching the robe closed around her. The silence pressed down between them until he finally spoke.
“You’re afraid.”
She stiffened. “Shouldn’t I be?”
His dark eyes lifted, meeting hers with unnerving clarity. “Yes.”
The honesty of it struck her like a slap. He wasn’t trying to soothe her, wasn’t pretending this was anything it wasn’t. He acknowledged her fear. He accepted it. Maybe even expected it.
Bella’s voice shook. “You said this marriage is survival. But survival for who? You? My father? Or me?”
For a moment, the fire cracked, filling the silence he left hanging. Then he leaned forward, his gaze piercing.
“For all of us. But especially you.”
The words lingered, heavy, cryptic.
He rose then, placing the untouched glass on the mantel. His presence loomed, filling the space between them until Bella’s back touched the wall. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His proximity alone set her heart racing, fear and something she refused to name tangling in her veins.
His voice dropped, deep and low. “You are my wife now. That means your life is tied to mine. My enemies will be your enemies. My blood will stain your hands. And if you ever forget that…” His eyes narrowed slightly. “…you won’t survive.”
Bella’s breath caught, her chest heaving.
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, retrieving his jacket from the chair. He shrugged it over his shoulders, his movements once again precise, controlled. The mask slipped back into place, the brief flicker of vulnerability—if it had been real—buried beneath stone.
“Rest, Isabella,” he said, his voice distant now. “Tomorrow, you’ll wake not as a Romana… but as a Moretti. And there is no going back.”
He left her with those words, the door clicking shut behind him as he disappeared into the mansion’s shadows.
Bella slid down the wall, her knees pulling to her chest, her robe falling loosely around her. The fire snapped in the hearth, mocking her with its warmth.
Alone in the vast room, she buried her face in her hands and let the tears she had held back all day finally fall.
Because deep down, she knew the truth.
Her marriage wasn’t a sanctuary.
It was a sentence.
And the man she now called husband was both her jailer and her only chance at survival.
- Writer
