Isabella POV

"Marry me."

The words hung in the sunlit room, absurd and suffocating. I let out a harsh, breathless laugh, clutching the duvet tighter against my chest. "Are you insane?" I spat, my voice dripping with all the aristocratic venom I had been raised to wield. "Get out before I have my father's men put a bullet in your skull."

Damien didn't blink. His expression remained carved from stone as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me.

A soft, desperate moan filled the quiet room. My moan.

I froze, the blood draining from my face. On the screen, illuminated by the city lights of the night before, was me. Tangled in the sheets against the floor-to-ceiling window, arching into him, my face a portrait of willing, shameless surrender.

"If this gets out," Damien said, his voice a lethal, even calm, "you won't just be Julian Falcone's discarded bride. You will be a disgraced woman available to all. The underworld's favorite punchline."

Panic clawed at my throat, sharp and suffocating. He was right. In our world, a broken engagement was a scandal; a sex tape with a subordinate was a death sentence to a woman's reputation. I would be stripped of my name, my assets, and my protection.

My mind raced, calculating the ruins of my life. The Falcone alliance was dead. My father had already frozen my accounts, and the fifty-million-dollar breach of contract hung over my head like a guillotine. I needed a husband to salvage the Blanchard name, to prove I wasn't broken by Julian's betrayal, and to buy time to pay off the debt.

I looked at the man standing over me. I could use him.

"Fine," I choked out, forcing my chin up. "Six months. A marriage of convenience. In public, you remain my bodyguard. You follow my orders. After six months, we divorce quietly." I expected him to argue, to demand more.

Instead, his dark eyes locked onto mine. "Done."

"And you delete the video," I demanded, trying to claw back some semblance of control.

"No."

"You bastard," I hissed, my anger flaring again. "You're doing this for the Blanchard fortune. You want a payout."

Damien's jaw tightened, a flash of genuine dark amusement crossing his features. "I have no interest in Blanchard's money." He leaned in, his massive frame pressing me further into the mattress, the scent of mint and danger overwhelming my senses. "Let's add a clause. Outside this room, I'm your soldier. You give the orders. Inside, you're my wife. You take mine."

Before I could gasp, his mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn't a kiss of a subordinate; it was a punishing, possessive claim that tasted of absolute dominance. He devoured my protest, his hand tangling in my hair, holding me in place until my head spun.

When he finally pulled back, my lips were swollen and my chest heaved. He stared at my mouth, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "You were my first," he murmured, the raw intensity in his voice sending a confusing shiver down my spine.

First? My brain short-circuited. I pushed against his solid chest, desperate to wound his pride and reestablish the hierarchy. "And how exactly will you pay for this wedding, Soldier? Can your bodyguard salary even cover the fee at City Hall?"

Damien didn't say a word. He reached into his jacket draped over the armchair, pulled out a sleek leather wallet, and tossed a solid black card onto the nightstand.

It landed with a heavy, metallic clink. No numbers. No bank logo. A Centurion Card. An invitation-only symbol of limitless, untouchable wealth.

I stared at the black metal, the air completely leaving my lungs. A bodyguard didn't carry a black card. Who the hell was Damien Moretti?

"Get dressed," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "My judge is waiting. You'll be Mrs. Moretti before noon."

Without waiting for my response, he turned his back on my shock and walked straight toward my walk-in closet.

Isabella POV

I watched in stunned, suffocating silence as Damien bypassed my designer gowns and pulled out a sleek, ivory silk dress. Then, his large hand reached into my intimates drawer, retrieving a set of black lace lingerie.

The sheer audacity of it snapped me out of my shock. I pulled the duvet tighter around my bare chest, my cheeks burning with a volatile mix of rage and humiliation. "You don't have permission to touch me," I snapped, my voice trembling but laced with all the aristocratic venom I could muster.

He turned, the delicate lace looking absurdly fragile against his calloused, lethal hands. His expression was terrifyingly blank. "Permission is irrelevant, principessa(princess)," he stated, his voice a dark, unyielding rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "There isn't an inch of you I haven't already claimed. You are mine."

I grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his chest. He didn't even blink as it bounced off his solid frame. He merely set the clothes on the edge of the mattress and turned his back, a silent, immovable command that I had no choice but to obey.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the marble foyer, the silk dress clinging to my curves. I needed to regain some semblance of control. The contract said outside the bedroom, he was my soldier. I pointed to my Jimmy Choo heels resting on the floor and extended my silk-stockinged foot.

"My shoes, Soldier," I ordered, lifting my chin.

Damien's deep, ocean-blue eyes locked onto mine. For a second, he simply stared, the silence stretching until it felt dangerous. Then, he bent down. A flicker of triumph ignited in my chest-until his massive hands bypassed the shoes entirely, gripping my thighs.

With a sudden, effortless surge of power, he hoisted me into his arms. I gasped, my hands instinctively flying around his thick neck to keep from falling. He scooped up the heels with two fingers of his free hand and strode toward the private elevator, completely subverting my pathetic attempt at authority. My rebellion was nothing but a game to him.

The ride in his armored black G-Wagon was suffocating. When we pulled up to the stone steps of the New York City Marriage Bureau, my heart hammered against my ribs. Before Damien could even open my door, tires screeched. A sleek black Maybach swerved to a halt right behind us.

Julian Falcone practically threw himself out of the driver's seat. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, his aristocratic face pale with panic. "Bella!" he shouted, rushing toward me as I stepped onto the pavement. "Bella, please, you have to listen to me. Chloe was in a terrible accident, I had to-"

"Save it, Julian," I cut him off, my voice dripping with absolute ice. The sight of him no longer brought butterflies, only a sickening wave of betrayal. "The Blanchard-Falcone alliance is dead. And so are we."

"No, you don't mean that," he pleaded, desperation making him reckless. He reached out, his fingers wrapping tightly around my upper arm.

Before I could pull away, a shadow eclipsed the morning sun. Damien moved with the lethal speed of a striking viper. His hand clamped down on Julian's wrist like a steel vise.

"Take your hands off my wife," Damien commanded. The sheer, murderous intent in his voice made the air drop ten degrees.

Julian froze, his eyes darting from Damien's lethal grip to my face. "Wife?" he choked out. Then, his gaze snapped back to Damien, confusion morphing into something uglier. "Where is Chloe? Why aren't you answering her calls?"

My breath hitched. Chloe? Why would Julian's mistress be calling my bodyguard? A cold seed of doubt planted itself in my chest.

Julian sneered, trying to mask his intimidation with Falcone arrogance. "A common Soldier thinks he can take what belongs to the Falcone family?"

Damien didn't release him. Instead, he stepped closer, his towering frame dwarfing Julian. "What belongs to a Falcone is destined for ashes," Damien said softly, the promise of violence vibrating in every syllable. "What is mine... I protect at all costs. You will learn the difference."

He shoved Julian's arm away with a look of utter disgust, placed a heavy, possessive hand on the small of my back, and guided me up the steps toward the judge who would seal my fate.

Isabella POV

The ride back from the judge was a suffocating blur. The moment the door to my penthouse clicked shut, the dam broke. The humiliation of Julian's betrayal, the suffocating reality of the ink drying on my marriage certificate-it all erupted.

I grabbed the silver-framed photo of Julian and me from the console and hurled it against the marble floor. Glass shattered, scattering like my pathetic illusions. Next went the crystal decanter he had gifted me. Tears of pure, venomous rage spilled down my cheeks as I destroyed every trace of him.

Damien stood by the door, a silent, lethal shadow watching my breakdown. When I finally slumped against the wall, gasping for air, he moved. In two strides, he pinned me against the wall, his massive frame caging me in. He didn't wipe my tears; he lowered his head and captured them with his lips, the kiss tasting of salt and brutal punishment.

"This is the last time you shed a tear for a Falcone," he commanded, his voice a dark, absolute rumble. "From now on, your tears belong to me."

I shoved at his chest, my voice cracking. "I will never love you!"

"Love is irrelevant, principessa(princess)," he murmured, his grip tightening on my waist. "The man who possesses your body and soul is me."

My Blanchard pride flared. I screamed, driving my heel toward his shin. He didn't even flinch. With humiliating ease, he caught my leg, his large hand gripping my thigh, and hoisted me over his broad shoulder like a sack of flour.

I thrashed, pounding my fists against his solid back. "Put me down, you savage monster!" I shrieked.

He dumped me onto the velvet sofa. Before I could scramble away, he leaned over me, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with dark intent. "A monster you woke up, tesoro(treasure)," he whispered, the threat wrapping around me like a physical weight. "Now, you have to learn how to feed it."

He didn't give me time to recover. Minutes later, I was dragged out of my sanctuary and shoved into the passenger seat of his armored G-Wagon, heading toward Moretti Tower.

The silence in the cabin was deafening. Desperate to claw back some power, I grabbed a sleek black box I had snatched from the entryway table-a custom silk shirt meant for Julian. I threw it onto Damien's lap.

Damien opened the box. A cold, terrifying smirk touched his lips. He didn't try it on. Instead, his large, calloused hands gripped the collar, and with a sickening rip, he tore the expensive fabric completely in half.

"You will learn my sizes, Isabella," he ordered, tossing the shreds aside. "From my shirts down to my briefs. Because you are Mrs. Moretti now."

I flushed hotly but lifted my chin, using the only weapon I had left. "What good are perfect sizes with such rotten skills?"

The air in the cabin instantly froze. The veins on the back of his hands bulged as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw ticking with lethal restraint.

The tension held until the G-Wagon descended into the cavernous, brightly lit underground garage of Moretti Tower. As he parked the beast of a car and opened his door to step out, I realized this was my last chance. I couldn't walk into his domain as a prisoner.

I clutched the marriage document in my lap and forced a sultry, yielding smile. I leaned across the console, my lips brushing his ear. I felt his muscles tense, a momentary lapse in his iron control.

Without hesitation, I drove my knee upward, hard, right into his groin.

Damien let out a harsh grunt, doubling over. In a flash, I snatched the keys from his loose grip, shoved his heavy frame the rest of the way out the open door, and scrambled into the driver's seat. I slammed the door and locked it, the engine roaring to life.

I rolled down the bulletproof window just enough to meet his furious, pain-laced gaze.

"This contract makes me Mrs. Moretti, but don't you forget... I am still Isabella Blanchard," I declared, my heart pounding against my ribs. "You may be my husband, but you are still my Soldier. Know your place!"

I slammed my foot on the gas, the tires screeching against the concrete as I tore out of his garage, leaving my new master in the rearview mirror.