Tethered by Love, Bound by Hate

The night the storm approached, snow quietly blanketed Alessia’s ankles. Ivy climbed along the estate’s walls, brittle from years of frost, yet still stubbornly clinging to the pale stone bricks. The wrought-iron gates never opened, and only the wind—laden with snow—beat against her bare shoulders and arms. She stood in a velvet crimson evening dress, its thin fabric soaking up the cold like icewater. Snowflakes clung to her exposed shoulders, melting almost instantly. She didn’t know if he’d come. Maybe he would. But never in a hurry. He was always like this—blending control and humiliation into something ceremonial. Making her wait in the cold until her pride thawed, her resistance crumbled. That was how he liked it. She didn’t know why part of her still hoped he wouldn't come. Three years had passed. Her dignity eaten away, piece by piece. Like waking up in slow decay. The silence of the snow was broken by a low engine growl. A black Maybach rolled into the courtyard, its headlights casting a ghostly light across her pale face. She didn’t move. Didn’t even shiver. She was used to Dante’s methods—his chains weren’t metal, but time. Indifference. He likely arrived long ago. Just sat in the car, watching her freeze inch by inch through cigarette smoke. Dante Valtierri. She once looked up to that name. One of the most powerful heirs in the Valtierri Mafia. It was said he shot a traitor at age twenty and walked away uncharged. She thought it was a myth. Until she watched her father die. Until her family crumbled. Until she went from Moretti heiress to caged possession. He stepped into the snow. His polished shoes sank slightly, but the cold seemed to bow to him. He walked toward her, draping a black coat over her shoulders like a net cast over prey. “Next time you wait outside, wear more.” His voice was low, winter-drenched. “Be good.” Those words pulled lightly at the coat around her, as if he really cared whether she was cold. Alessia said nothing. She lowered her gaze and clutched the lining of the coat. It smelled like him—clean, woodsy, laced with smoke. Like something invasive, curling into her breath and down to her bones. She knew "be good" wasn't a suggestion. It was a reminder of what she was. She whispered a reply. Barely audible. But he heard. He always did. He smiled faintly, almost indulgent. “Come on,” he said, voice husky. “You’ve frozen enough.” She didn’t move. Her eyes remained on the snowy ground beneath her feet—the place she always returned to, unwilling. “Do you still want the medicine for your brother?” he asked, voice colder now. As if replaying a worn-out transaction. She slowly lifted her head. Snowflakes clung to her lashes. There were no tears. No rage. Just the hollow stillness of someone who had nothing left—breathing, but barely alive. She nodded. Turned away. There was never a choice. Not since she signed the medical contract three years ago. What she thought was a lifeline became her cage. Since then, she existed for two things only: to be hated. To be owned. What were she and Dante, anyway? She killed his lover. He became her captor. But he didn’t kill her. No. He kept her alive—to be something between punishment and possession. He wouldn’t let her die. But he refused to let her live. That night, the fever returned. Not the first time. Her body always rebelled before her mind could. She never cried. Never begged. But always got sick—“coincidentally” enough to test his patience. She curled into the bed, skin flushed, burning. The world spun. Somewhere through the haze, she saw the door open. He came. He always did. No one else was allowed to tend to her. She opened her eyes. He sat at the edge of the bed, his face unreadable. “103.7,” he murmured, voice low. He wasn’t worried. She knew. Even the way he fed her medicine felt like control. He brought the small porcelain bowl to her lips. She turned away. Her voice gone, but her defiance clear. He set the bowl down. His hand found the back of her neck. Cool fingers brushed her burning skin—part checking, part... measuring. “Have you forgotten how to obey when you’re sick?” His tone was soft. But sharp underneath. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “If not for me… Isabel would still be alive, right?” He said nothing. Then he grabbed her jaw, forcing her to face him. “You finally said it,” he breathed. It wasn’t anger in his eyes—but a twisted satisfaction. As if she'd walked into his trap. “You keep me alive not because you hate me,” she whispered. “But because you can’t stand that she’s gone.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “Every word you say now… makes me think of her.” Then his mouth moved to her neck, searing and possessive. She shut her eyes. Didn’t fight. But under the blanket, her fingers curled tight. This wasn’t care. It was punishment. He lifted the bowl again. Forced her lips open with his thumb. Poured the medicine in. She swallowed. Then bit her lip until blood filled her mouth. She stared at him. Eyes blank. Empty. He paused. Frowned slightly. Then, without a word, placed a kiss on her fevered forehead. Was it mercy? Or a hallucination of control? She didn’t care. She closed her eyes. Then he said, almost casually, “There’s a family gathering tomorrow night. You’ll come with me.” She turned, eyes sharp. “No.” “Hm?” “That’s your family. Not mine.” He raised a brow. “You weren’t always so cold.” She said nothing. “Don’t you remember?” He leaned in, smile faint. “You used to love those parties. Walking beside me, dressed like a queen. Florence? You got drunk. Clung to me. Said if I left, no one would notice you.” She looked out the window at the snow. “That was before.” “You think it’s funny now?” she added. “You dress me in her clothes, bring me to your events, parade me like her ghost.” “She’s not your replacement,” he said, voice low. “I made you become her.” Alessia turned, stared at him. Eyes full of a devastating quiet. “I’m not her,” she said. “And I won’t be.” He didn’t reply. Just watched her. Then, softly, he brushed her hair back. Voice too calm. “I don’t need you to be her. I need you to be how you used to be—obedient. Beautiful. Standing beside me.” “If you behave, they’ll all think… you’re already one of us.” “I don’t want to be anything to your family,” she said. “I don’t want their eyes on me. Their judgments. Their pity.” “Why?” he asked, voice dropping. “You always liked me… didn’t you?” Alessia’s heart twisted. Liked? That was a lifetime ago. Back when she was still the Moretti girl. Back when he was just the quiet man in the shadows. She used to watch him from afar. Thought he was kind. But now she knew: that gaze was never gentle. It was a hunter’s patience. He was the guest her father trusted. The creditor who held her brother’s life. The man who whispered, “Be good, and I’ll give you the medicine,” as he touched her in the dark. She said nothing. The room fell quiet, smothered by silence like the snow swallowing the world outside. Then he chuckled. Softly. “If you won’t go,” he murmured, loosening his collar, “Then I’ll stay with you. I hate those people anyway.”