his beauty, his beast

chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Caged Roses

Valentina Cruz

If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be kidnapped politely and given a luxury suite in hell, let me tell you: the room smells like lavender, the sheets have a thread count in the thousands, and the doorknob is made of pure gold.

Also, it doesn’t open from the inside.

So yeah. Prison, but make it fashion.

⸻

Day one in the House of D’Amico was like waking up in a movie where I was the only one who hadn’t read the script. A maid brought breakfast that could’ve fed a village. I ignored it. My stomach had staged a protest.

I checked the phone Rafael gave me. No messages. No apps. Just a blank screen, a list of emergency numbers, and one contact saved as “The Beast”.

Funny.

I typed “Get bent” and almost hit send.

Almost.

Instead, I chucked the phone across the bed and paced like a lioness who’d just realized her cage had velvet bars.

That’s when she knocked.

A soft tap. Then the door opened, and in walked the kind of woman who made you instinctively sit up straighter. Petite, stylish, a few years older than me — probably in her late twenties — with a clipboard in one hand and a gun holstered casually at her waist like it was lipstick.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Camilla. Rafael’s assistant.”

“Let me guess,” I muttered. “You’re here to schedule my next breakdown?”

She smiled. “Close. I’m here to explain your new life.”

⸻

Camilla gave me the tour like we were in some twisted version of MTV Cribs: Mafia Bride Edition.

“This is the solarium, where you can read or have tea. Here’s the dining room — dinner is at 7 sharp unless someone’s been assassinated. And this is the east wing, which is off-limits unless you enjoy being shot.”

“Charming,” I said. “And what happens if I decide I’d rather be anywhere else?”

She didn’t flinch. “You won’t get far.”

Her voice was polite. Almost kind. But her eyes were pure steel.

I hated how calm she was. How controlled. I wanted to scream, throw a vase, maybe set the whole mansion on fire just to make a point.

Instead, I asked, “What exactly does Rafael expect from me?”

She stopped walking. “He expects loyalty. And strength.”

I scoffed. “He buys women now and expects loyalty?”

“You weren’t bought,” she said, folding her arms. “You were chosen.”

My laugh was hollow. “Great. I’ve been selected like a cursed Disney princess.”

Camilla’s expression softened for a second, then hardened again.

“You’ll find your way here,” she said quietly. “Or you’ll break.”

⸻

The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. I met a few of the staff — silent guards with neck tattoos, an older cook named Nonna Lucia who insisted I eat “or I’ll get skinny and die ugly,” and a tall, broad-shouldered guy named Nico who introduced himself as my new “shadow.”

Translation: personal bodyguard / babysitter / potential executioner.

Nico was quiet. Observant. Always five steps behind me, even when I went to the garden just to breathe.

The garden, by the way, was full of roses.

Black ones.

Poetic, really.

Caged roses. Just like me.

⸻

That night, I sat on the balcony outside my suite, staring at the moon and pretending I wasn’t plotting an escape I knew was impossible.

I thought of school. Of my professors, my part-time job at the café, my best friend Lila who still thought I’d gone on a “family trip.”

I thought of my dad — somewhere out there, probably drunk, probably gambling again.

And then I thought of Rafael.

Of his eyes like dark smoke.

His calm voice.

The way he looked at me like I was fire and he didn’t mind getting burned.

What kind of man chooses a wife like you’d choose a weapon?

A dangerous one.

But I’d be damned if I let him win.

⸻

I pulled out the phone again.

Typed:

You’re still a jerk. Just so we’re clear.

Paused.

Then I deleted it.

Instead, I wrote:

Tomorrow, I’m coming to your office. We need rules.

Sent.

Three minutes later, a reply lit up the screen:

“Looking forward to it, Beauty.”

I threw the phone again.

But this time, I smiled.

Just a little.