The First Night
1690 Words
The bedroom was larger than the entire apartment she’d just been evicted from.
Mila stood in the doorway, her worn sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished marble floor. A king-sized bed dominated the center, draped in dark silk. A walk-in closet stood open, revealing rows of empty hangers waiting to be filled. On the dresser sat a black velvet box. She didn’t dare open it.
You’re not a guest here, she reminded herself. You’re a possession.
She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled below, a grid of millions of lights, each one representing a life she couldn’t afford to live. Somewhere down there, her mother was sleeping in a sterile hospital bed, dreaming of a daughter who hadn’t just sold her soul.
Mila pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Six weeks.
The number felt like a physical weight low in her abdomen. She hadn’t meant to keep it a secret. At first, she hadn’t even known. She’d blamed the missed periods on stress, the morning nausea on cheap diner coffee. Then, three days ago, a free clinic had handed her a plastic stick with two pink lines.
She had sat in the bathroom stall for an hour, staring at the paper, waiting for a feeling that never came. Not joy. Not even fear. Just a hollow, ringing numbness.
The father was Lucian Marchetti. Dante’s most vicious rival. A man with sharp green eyes and a smile that felt like a velvet trap. She’d met him six months ago at a VIP lounge a friend had dragged her to. It was supposed to be one night of pretending to be normal.
He had been charming. Attentive. He’d bought her a drink when she was at her lowest.
The rest was a haze of expensive liquor and a blurred, waking nightmare. She remembered waking up in a strange, opulent bed, sore and confused, wearing silk that wasn’t hers. Lucian was already gone. The only trace he’d left was a note on the pillow: "You were lovely. Let's not do this again."
She had never reported it. Her mother was already sick. The police would ask questions she couldn’t answer. Lawyers cost money she didn’t have. And who would believe a broke, exhausted librarian who had been stupid enough to accept a drink from a stranger?
So she buried it. Like she buried every other disaster in her life.
But the tiny, growing life inside her was proof. And proof couldn’t be buried.
---
A sharp knock on the door made her flinch.
"You have thirty minutes," a woman’s voice called through the wood. Cold. Professional. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."
The footsteps faded before Mila could even form a response.
She turned to the closet. Dozens of black dresses hung like silent sentinels. She picked the plainest one—long sleeves, a high neck, nothing flashy. It still probably cost more than her annual salary.
She changed slowly. The fabric slid over her skin, fitting her curves with unsettling precision. Of course it did. Dante Rosetti likely had her measurements before she’d even stepped foot in his building.
The mirror reflected a stranger. A woman draped in expensive silk, with dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes and a ticking time bomb hidden in her belly.
You can do this, she told her reflection. One year. Three hundred thousand dollars. Mama survives.
She took a deep breath and walked out to face the devil.
---
The dining table was twenty feet long, carved from dark wood and polished to a mirror shine. Crystal glasses caught the flicker of candlelight. White roses sat in heavy silver vases, their sweet scent doing nothing to settle Mila’s churning stomach.
Dante sat at the head of the table. He had shed his suit jacket, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone, revealing a hint of the scar on his collarbone. A glass of deep red wine waited beside his hand. He didn’t look up as she entered.
"Sit."
She took the chair to his right. Close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—woodsmoke, leather, and something sharp, like winter air.
A silent servant appeared, placing a bowl of steaming soup in front of her. Mila’s stomach revolted. She lifted the silver spoon anyway, her hand trembling slightly.
"You're not eating," Dante observed. His voice was quiet, but it filled the vast room.
"Not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
She forced a spoonful past her lips. The broth was rich, perfectly seasoned. Her stomach hated her for enjoying it.
Dante watched her for a long, heavy moment, his pale blue eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed. Then, he returned to his own meal. They ate in silence, the only sounds the delicate clink of silverware against porcelain and the distant, muffled hum of the city below.
Then, he dropped the bomb.
"Lucian Marchetti."
Mila’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth. A drop of broth splashed onto the pristine white tablecloth.
"Tell me what you know about him," Dante said, his tone casually conversational.
She set the spoon down carefully, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I don't know him."
"You flinched when I said his name."
"I flinch at sudden noises. It’s a reflex. It means nothing."
Dante set his fork down. The sound was soft, deliberate, and somehow louder than a scream in the quiet room. "I don't tolerate lies at my table, Mila."
Mila. Not Mrs. Rosetti. Not Miss Cortez. Just Mila. It sounded intimate. And deeply dangerous.
"I met him once," she said, choosing her words with surgical care. "At a party, months ago. We spoke for five minutes. I never saw him again."
Lies wrapped in a thin veneer of truth. It was the only way to survive.
Dante’s gaze drilled into her, searching for a crack in her armor. She held his stare, praying he couldn’t smell the terror radiating off her skin.
"Lucian is my enemy," Dante said finally, his voice dropping an octave. "If he knows you are here, he will use you to get to me. He will break you just to watch me bleed. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"If he contacts you, you tell me immediately. No exceptions."
"Yes."
"If you lie to me about him," Dante leaned forward, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his scarred cheek, "the terms of this contract change. You won't just be my wife on paper. You will be my prisoner in practice. And I will still collect every penny I am owed. Do we understand each other?"
Mila nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.
Dante leaned back, the suffocating tension breaking as if he’d flipped a switch. He picked up his wine glass and swirled the dark liquid. "Good. Now, tell me about your mother."
The question caught her completely off guard. "What?"
"Her name. Her illness. Her favorite color." He took a slow sip of wine. "I am paying for her surgery. I should know something about the woman keeping my new wife alive."
Mila blinked. This wasn’t in the contract. The devil wasn’t supposed to ask personal questions.
"Elena," she said slowly. "Her name is Elena. She has genetic kidney disease." She paused, swallowing hard. "Her favorite color is yellow. Like the sun. She always said no one could be sad in a yellow room."
Dante nodded once. "I'll have her hospital room painted tomorrow."
Mila’s chest tightened, a painful, unexpected crack in her defenses. "Why?"
"Because a depressed mother is a poor investment," he said smoothly, standing up. "And I always protect my investments. Dinner is over. Go to your room. Tomorrow we have a public appearance. You’ll meet the family."
He walked away, leaving her alone at the massive table, surrounded by white roses, candlelight, and a twisted form of kindness that felt far more terrifying than his cruelty.
---
The hallway stretched before her, long and shadowed. She walked slowly, one hand instinctively pressing against her lower stomach.
You're carrying something. While you're under my roof, it's mine to protect.
He knew. He had to know. But he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t accused. He had just served her soup and asked about her mother’s favorite color.
Don't trust him, she told herself fiercely. Don't trust anyone.
She reached her bedroom door. Her fingers were just brushing the cold brass handle when a voice from the shadows behind her made her freeze.
"Mrs. Rosetti."
Mila turned slowly.
A woman stepped into the dim light of the hallway. Tall, with raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes that were a terrifying mirror of Dante’s. She had the same sharp bone structure, the same cruel mouth. But where Dante’s coldness was controlled and calculated, this woman’s was wild. Hungry.
"You must be the new stray he picked up," the woman said, her voice dripping with elegant venom.
Mila straightened her spine, refusing to shrink. "I'm his contract wife."
"Same thing, in the end." The woman stepped closer. She was younger than Mila expected—mid-twenties, maybe. But her eyes looked ancient. "I'm Valentina. Dante's sister. And I'm going to save you the trouble of getting comfortable."
She leaned in. Her breath smelled of expensive cigarettes and peppermint.
"My brother doesn't know how to love, little librarian. He only knows how to own." Valentina’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "And when he's tired of you, he’ll discard you like all the rest. The only question is: how much of your soul will you lose before he throws you away?"
She turned and walked down the hall, her heels clicking against the marble like the ticking of a bomb.
Mila stood in the empty hallway, shaking, her hand still pressed protectively over her stomach.
Six weeks pregnant with the enemy’s baby.
And now, the don’s sister already wanted her destroyed.
She pushed open the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it softly behind her.
Then she slid down the wood until she hit the floor, buried her face in her hands, and let the silent, shaking tears finally come.
- Writer
