Bloodline and Betrayal

CHAPTER 4

ROSALIA’s POV

The grand estate dawned around me like a fortress, its towering walls and endless hallways a clean contrast to the modest home I’d grown up in. Yet, despite its luxury, the shining marble floors, crystal chandeliers dripping from very high ceilings, and art pieces worth more than my entire existence. it felt cold. Lifeless. Like a gilded cage.

The faint echo of my footsteps trailed behind me as I was led deeper into the house by a woman named Sofia. She was polite enough, her tone clipped and professional, but her eyes showed the same thing I’d seen in everyone else here, caution.

“This is your room, madam,” Sofia said, stopping in front of a golden carved door. She pushed it open, revealing a space larger than my entire bedroom back home.

The room was lovely—floor-to-ceiling windows framed with heavy velvet curtains, a king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, and a balcony overlooking a garden that seemed to stretch endlessly. But beneath the beauty, there was an undeniable void, as though the room had been prepared for someone to occupy, not live in.

Sofia placed my small suitcase near the wardrobe, her expression unreadable. “If you need anything, press the button by the door. Someone will assist you.”

I nodded silently, my throat too tight to let out any word.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I stood there for a moment, frozen, then slowly crossed the room to the balcony.

The warm evening air hit my face like a splash of reality. I grasped the iron railings, admiring the beautiful garden space. The flowers, the perfectly trimmed hedges, even the distant fountain were all meticulously maintained, just like the people who lived here.

I wasn’t here because of love. I wasn’t even here by choice. I was a bargaining chip, a pawn traded for alliances.

But I wasn’t going to be their victim.

Not my father’s. Not Isabel’s. And certainly not Luca Moretti’s.

The memory of his face flashed in my mind, sharp features, and cold eyes that seemed to strip me bare with a single glance. There was something dangerous about him, something controlled yet simmering beneath the surface like a predator deciding whether to pounce or play with its prey.

I turned away from the balcony, my stomach twisting with a mix of anger and fear.

I won’t let him control me.

The hours passed slowly. Night fell, casting long shadows across the room. I refused to lie on the bed, opting instead to sit on the window seat, knees drawn to my chest. Sleep was out of the question; my mind wouldn’t allow it.

A soft knock echoed through the room, sharp against the silence.

Before I could respond, the door creaked open, and there he was. Luca Moretti.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, his presence filling the space like gravity itself. He wasn’t dressed as formally as earlier, having shed his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His watch gleamed under the soft light.

“You didn’t join us for dinner,” he said, his voice smooth, unbothered, as though we were acquaintances making small talk.

I lifted my chin, trying to steady my voice. “I wasn’t hungry.”

His gaze drifted over me, not in the way men sometimes look at women, but like I was something to be studied,an object of curiosity.

“You’ll need your strength,I’ll let it pass just for today” he replied, stepping further into the room. “This isn’t the type of place where weakness is tolerated.”

I bristled. “Good thing I’m not weak, then.”

For a brief moment, amusement flickered in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You will have to prove that”, he responded.

“Why are you here?” I asked, my voice sharp, cutting through the tension.

His head tilted slightly as if the question genuinely intrigued him. “I could ask you the same.”

I stood up, my heart racing despite my attempt to appear calm. “I didn’t have a choice.”

He took a slow step closer. “ I do not care”.

That made me pause. I hadn’t expected that answer.

“You have a role to play here” he continued his voice low, almost a whisper. “Marriage is a transaction. A strategic move.”

I swallowed hard, refusing to let him see the lump forming in my throat.

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile.

He turned to leave but paused at the door, his back still to me.

“Breakfast is at eight,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

The door closed softly behind him, leaving me with nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat.

—

The next morning, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. Dark circles framed my eyes, remnants of a sleepless night. My fingers trembled slightly as I adjusted the simple dress I’d chosen, not too formal, not too casual. I didn’t know why I cared, but I did.

Maybe it was pride. Or maybe I just didn’t want to give Luca Moretti the satisfaction of seeing me as a weak person.

The dining room was as grand as I’d expected, a long table, expensive crystal, polished silverware that probably cost more than my father’s entire monthly salary.

Luca was already there, seated at the head of the table, casually flipping through some documents. He didn’t look up when I entered.

I forced my feet to move, taking the seat farthest from him.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft clinking of cutlery as a server poured coffee into delicate china cups.

Luca finally glanced up, his sharp gaze pinning me in place. “You’re late.”

It was exactly 8:02.

He set his papers aside, leaning back in his chair.

“I barely shut my eyes all night” I replied flatly.

His lips twitched slightly, that almost-smirk returning. “I don't care, I won't tolerate this the next time.

I wasn’t so sure of what to say.

The meal passed in strained silence until he spoke again.

“We have a dinner event tonight,” he said, as if it were an ordinary announcement. “You’ll attend with me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“It’s part of the arrangement,” he replied smoothly. “Appearances matter. Our engagement needs to look… authentic, and besides my family will be there.

I laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You’re worried about appearances? Isn’t it obvious this whole thing is fake?”

His expression darkened, the brief flicker of amusement gone. He stood up and approached me , “It doesn’t matter what’s real, Rosalia. It matters what people believe.” and this should be the last time you talk back at me.

I stared at him, realizing that beneath his controlled exterior was a man who had spent his life crafting illusions.

And now, I was part of his latest one.

-

The hours blurred as I prepared for the evening. A dress had been laid out for me. A sleek, elegant red gown that fit like a second skin. Whoever had chosen it knew exactly how to make it both stunning and restrictive.

When I descended the staircase, Luca was waiting. He looked immaculate in a tailored suit, his dark hair slightly tousled, a sharp contrast to his otherwise polished appearance.

His eyes met mine, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Shall we?” he said, offering his arm.

I hesitated, then placed my hand on his arm, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric.

As we stepped outside, the cool night air wrapped around us. The car was waiting, sleek and black like everything else in his life, elegant, expensive, and hiding more beneath the surface than it revealed.

The ride was quiet. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, feeling like an outsider looking in on someone else’s life.

When we arrived at the event, a lavish affair filled with people dressed in designer clothes and wearing masks of politeness, I realized exactly what Luca meant about appearances.

Everyone watched us. Some with curiosity, others with thinly veiled judgment.

Luca’s hand never left the small of my back, a silent reminder of my role.

But as the night wore on, I noticed something else.

The way people looked at him,not with affection or even respect, but with fear.

And Luca thrived on it.