ELENA

The car ride felt like driving toward my own funeral.

The driver didn't speak. He just drove through the city in silence while I sat in the back, trying not to throw up. The wedding dress rustled every time I moved, reminding me that this was actually happening.

I was really doing this.

My phone buzzed. Victor's number flashed on the screen-except it wasn't my phone anymore. It was Sophia's. I'd left mine in my car on that bridge, along with everything else from my old life.

I turned the phone face-down and watched the city disappear behind us as we climbed into the hills.

The estate appeared after about thirty minutes of winding roads. It wasn't a church. It was a massive stone mansion that looked like it had been airlifted from Italy. Manicured gardens stretched in every direction, and people in expensive clothes clustered near the entrance, their voices carrying on the morning breeze.

This wasn't a wedding. This was a statement.

"We've arrived, Miss Laurent," the driver said.

I couldn't move. My body had apparently decided that staying in this car forever was a better option than getting out.

"Miss Laurent?" The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

Right. I was Miss Laurent now. Elena Morrison didn't exist anymore.

I took a breath and opened the door.

Every eye turned toward me. A dozen conversations stopped mid-sentence as I stepped out of the car. I felt them assessing me, judging every detail from my dress to my hair to the way I held myself.

Show nothing, I reminded myself. Sophia had drilled it into me all night. In her world, emotion was weakness.

A woman in her fifties approached, her smile sharp. "Sophia, darling. You look absolutely radiant."

I had no idea who she was. My brain scrambled through everything I'd memorized. Dark hair going grey, expensive jewelry, sharp features-

"Aunt Margot," I said, praying I was right. "Thank you for coming."

Her smile widened slightly. "Of course, dear. Though I must say, you seem remarkably calm. Most brides are basket cases by now."

"I've had months to prepare," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"Mm. Yes, I suppose you have." Her eyes were calculating, searching for something. "Your father's waiting inside. He wants to see you before the ceremony."

My stomach dropped. Sophia's father. The man who knew his daughter better than anyone. If anyone was going to see through me, it would be him.

"Of course," I said. "Lead the way."

She escorted me through marble hallways lined with what were probably priceless paintings. Everything in this place screamed money. Old money. The kind that came with expectations and traditions and arranged marriages.

Margot stopped at a heavy wooden door and knocked twice. "Your bride, Henri."

She pushed it open and I walked in.

Henri Laurent stood by the window, backlit by morning sun. He was exactly what I'd expected from Sophia's description-silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of posture that came from a lifetime of looking down at people.

He turned, and his eyes locked onto mine.

I stopped breathing. He was studying me like I was a painting he was considering buying. Every detail. Every flaw.

He knew. He had to know. There was no way I could fool this man.

"Leave us," he said to Margot.

The door closed with a soft click.

We stood in silence. Henri walked to the bar and poured two glasses of scotch. He handed me one without asking if I wanted it.

"Drink," he said.

I drank. The scotch burned going down.

Henri sipped his own drink, still watching me. "You're nervous."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."

"Good. You should be." He set down his glass. "Do you understand what today means, Sophia? What this marriage represents?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"This alliance secures our family's future. Dante Castellano may be new money, but he's powerful. And power is the only thing that matters in our world." He stepped closer. "I know you didn't want this. I know you think I'm cruel for forcing you into it. But one day, you'll understand that personal happiness is a luxury we can't afford."

The irony hit me hard. He was giving this speech about sacrifice to a woman who wasn't even his daughter. To a stranger who'd taken Sophia's place so she could escape him.

"I understand," I said quietly.

He seemed satisfied. "Good. Now finish your drink. The ceremony starts in twenty minutes."

I downed the rest of the scotch, grateful for the burn. It gave me something to focus on besides my racing heart.

Henri offered his arm. "Ready?"

No. Absolutely not. This was insane and I should run right now.

"Yes," I said, and took his arm.

We walked down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking people who were probably Sophia's ancestors. Through open doors, I glimpsed the ceremony space-rows of chairs filled with guests, flowers everywhere, and at the front, an altar draped in white fabric.

And standing at that altar was Dante Castellano.

My breath caught.

The photo hadn't done him justice. He was tall-well over six feet-with broad shoulders that filled out his black suit perfectly. Dark hair, styled but not overly so. And that scar on his jaw, a pale line that somehow made him more intimidating instead of less.

But it was his stillness that got me. He stood there completely motionless, hands clasped in front of him, face showing absolutely nothing. Like he was carved from stone.

Music started. Classical and dramatic.

"That's our cue," Henri murmured.

The doors opened wide.

Every head in the room turned to look at me.

I gripped Henri's arm tighter and started walking. Each step felt impossible. The aisle stretched forever, and at the end of it stood a man who would destroy me if he knew the truth.

Halfway down the aisle, Dante's eyes locked onto mine through the veil.

I stumbled slightly. Henri's hand tightened on my arm, steadying me.

Dante's head tilted just a fraction. Like he'd noticed. Like he was already filing away details that didn't fit.

We reached the altar. Henri placed my hand in Dante's and stepped back.

Dante's hand was warm. His grip was firm but not crushing. He looked down at me through the veil, and even though I couldn't see his eyes clearly, I felt the weight of his attention. The intensity of it.

Like he was trying to see through the fabric. Through the lies. Straight down to the truth.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant began.

I barely heard the words. My entire focus was on Dante, on his hand holding mine, on the way his thumb brushed once across my knuckles. Was that a warning? A test?

"The couple has chosen to exchange personal vows," the officiant said.

My heart stopped. Sophia hadn't mentioned vows. What was I supposed to say?

Dante spoke first, his voice deep and controlled. "Sophia Laurent. I vow to protect you and provide for you. To honor the alliance between our families. You will want for nothing, as long as you remain loyal."

As long as I remained loyal. The threat was barely hidden.

Everyone was looking at me now. Waiting.

I swallowed hard. "Dante Castellano. I vow to stand beside you and honor our agreement. To fulfill my role in this union."

Short. Vague. The best I could manage without knowing what Sophia would have said.

Dante's hand tightened on mine for just a second. His head tilted again, that same analytical movement.

He knew something was off. I could feel it.

"You may now kiss your bride," the officiant said.

Dante reached for my veil.

This was it. The moment he'd see my face and know I wasn't Sophia. The moment everything would fall apart.

The veil lifted.

His grey eyes met mine, and I watched his expression change. Confusion flickered across his face, then something darker. Suspicion.

He knew. Maybe he didn't know what exactly, but he knew something was wrong.

Then he leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn't gentle or romantic. It was a claim. A statement. His hand cupped the back of my neck, holding me in place, and I felt the controlled power in him. The danger just beneath the surface.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine for a long moment.

"Hello, wife," he said quietly, so only I could hear.

ELENA

The reception was a blur of fake smiles and champagne I couldn't taste.

Dante kept his hand on the small of my back the entire time, guiding me through conversations with people whose names I immediately forgot. His touch was possessive, claiming, and I couldn't tell if it was for show or something else.

"Smile," he murmured against my ear during one particularly long conversation with a business associate. "You look terrified."

"I'm not," I lied.

His hand tightened on my waist. "Yes, you are. I can feel you shaking."

I forced myself to relax, to lean into him like a real bride would. His body was solid against mine, warm and overwhelming. He smelled like expensive cologne and something darker I couldn't identify.

"Better," he said, but his voice was cold.

We cut the cake. We had our first dance. We did all the things married couples were supposed to do, and the whole time I felt his eyes on me, watching, analyzing, looking for the crack in my performance.

"You dance differently than I expected," he said as we moved across the floor.

My heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Your file said you trained in classical ballet. But you move like someone who learned at parties, not in studios."

Because I had learned at parties. At college functions and friend's weddings. Not in the expensive ballet schools that Sophia had attended.

"I haven't danced in years," I said quickly. "I'm rusty."

"Mm." That sound again. Like he didn't quite believe me but was waiting to see what else didn't add up.

The song ended. Dante's hand slid from my waist to my hand, and he lifted it to his lips. The gesture looked romantic. But his eyes were ice-cold.

"Time to leave," he said. "My driver is waiting."

Leave. Right. Because we were married now. Which meant going home with him. To his house. Where we'd be alone.

I hadn't thought that far ahead.

Dante led me through the crowd toward the exit. People called out congratulations and well-wishes that I barely heard over the pounding of my heart. A car was waiting-a black Mercedes with tinted windows.

The same kind of car I'd ridden in this morning. Was that really only this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Dante opened the door for me. I climbed in, the wedding dress bunching around me. He slid in beside me, and suddenly the spacious car felt tiny.

The driver pulled away from the estate without a word.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"My home. Did you expect a hotel?"

"I didn't expect anything."

"Clearly." He turned to look at me fully for the first time since the ceremony. "Take off the veil."

My hands trembled as I reached up and unpinned it. The fabric fell away, and suddenly there was nothing between us. No barrier. No protection.

Dante studied my face in the dim light of the car. His expression was unreadable.

"You're not what I expected," he said finally.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more composed. The Sophia Laurent I researched was cold. Controlled. You're neither of those things."

"Maybe you didn't research well enough."

His eyes narrowed. "I research everything thoroughly. It's how I've survived this long." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was almost gentle. "So either you're hiding who you really are, or something else is going on."

I couldn't breathe. His hand was still near my face, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it.

"I'm your wife," I said, trying to sound confident. "That's all you need to know."

"Is it?" His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. "Because I think there's a lot more to know about you, wife."

The way he said that word made heat pool low in my stomach. This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And I was trapped in a car with him, headed to his home, with no way out.

The car pulled through a gate and up a long driveway. The house-mansion, really-was modern and imposing. All glass and steel and sharp angles. Nothing warm or welcoming about it.

Dante got out first and offered me his hand. I took it because I had no choice.

Inside, the house was exactly what I'd expected. Expensive furniture, high ceilings, art that probably cost more than most people made in a year. It looked like a showroom, not a home.

"Your room is upstairs," Dante said, already walking toward a staircase. "Second door on the right."

"My room?" I followed him. "Not our room?"

He stopped and turned to look at me. "Did you expect to share a bed with me?"

"We're married."

"We're in an arrangement." His voice was flat. "You play your role in public. In private, we maintain boundaries. Unless you'd prefer something different?"

The way he looked at me when he said that made my skin flush. Like he was daring me to say yes. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on me and was testing whether I'd admit it.

"Boundaries are fine," I said.

"Good." He continued up the stairs. "Your things have been moved from your father's house. Everything should be in the closet."

Sophia's things. Not mine. Clothes I'd never worn, shoes I'd never broken in, a life I was pretending to live.

He stopped at a door and pushed it open. The bedroom was huge. King-sized bed, sitting area, balcony overlooking the grounds. It was beautiful and impersonal and nothing like my cramped apartment back in the city.

"My room is at the end of the hall," Dante said. "If you need anything."

"I won't."

"We'll see." He stepped closer, and suddenly I was very aware of how much bigger he was than me. How easily he could overpower me if he wanted. "Get some rest, wife. Tomorrow, we start figuring out what's really going on with you."

"Nothing's going on."

"Liar." He said it softly, almost affectionately. Then he reached out and ran his thumb across my bottom lip. "You're a terrible liar. Your tells are everywhere. The way you hold yourself, the way you speak, the way you look at me like you're afraid I'm going to eat you alive."

"Are you?"

"I haven't decided yet." His hand dropped away. "Goodnight, Sophia. Or whoever you really are."

He left, closing the door behind him.

I stood there for a full minute, trying to get my heart to slow down, trying to process what just happened.

He knew. Maybe he didn't know exactly what, but he knew I wasn't who I claimed to be. And instead of confronting me directly, he was going to watch. Wait. Gather evidence until he had enough to prove it.

I was so screwed.

I pulled out Sophia's phone and stared at it. I should call someone. Do something. But who would I call? Sophia was gone. I had no friends here. No allies.

I was completely alone in a house with a man who was suspicious of me. A man who'd just touched my face like he owned me and promised to figure out my secrets.

My hands were still shaking when I started to unzip the wedding dress.

This was my wedding night. And I was spending it alone, terrified, in a stranger's house.

Tomorrow, Dante was going to start asking questions I couldn't answer.

I had no idea what I was going to do.

ELENA

I didn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dante's face. The way he'd looked at me like he was solving a puzzle. The way his thumb had felt against my lip. The cold certainty in his voice when he'd called me a liar.

By the time sun filtered through the curtains, I'd given up trying.

I showered and stood in front of Sophia's closet, staring at clothes that cost more than my rent. Everything was designer. Everything was perfect. Everything screamed old money and sophistication.

I pulled on a simple dress and tried to remember how Sophia held herself. Shoulders back. Head high. Emotion locked away where no one could see it.

I could do this. I just had to keep pretending for a little while longer. Then I'd figure out how to get out of this mess.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"Mrs. Castellano?" A woman's voice. "Breakfast is ready."

Mrs. Castellano. That was me now. My stomach turned.

"I'll be right down," I called out.

The dining room was as impersonal as the rest of the house. Long table, expensive chairs, windows overlooking perfectly manicured gardens. Dante sat at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet, a cup of coffee in front of him.

He looked up when I entered. His eyes tracked me as I crossed the room and sat down at the opposite end of the table.

"Good morning, wife."

"Good morning."

A woman I assumed was the housekeeper brought out plates of food. Eggs, toast, fresh fruit. My stomach was too twisted to eat, but I forced myself to take a few bites.

Dante watched me the entire time.

"We have a lunch meeting today," he said finally. "With the Robertsons. They're potential investors in my European expansion."

"Okay."

"You'll need to be charming. Smile at the right times. Laugh at Theodore's terrible jokes. Make Margaret feel like you're interested in her boring stories about her grandchildren."

"I know how to make small talk."

"Do you?" He set down his tablet. "Because yesterday at the reception, you called Antonio Rossi by the wrong name. Twice."

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. "I was nervous."

"You called him Anthony. His name is Antonio. You'd know that if you'd actually met him before, which according to your family's records, you have. Multiple times."

I set down the fork carefully. "I misspoke."

"You also didn't recognize Margaret Robertson yesterday when she spoke to you. She's been a friend of your family for years. She attended your mother's funeral." He stood and walked toward me. "Want to explain that?"

"I don't remember everyone I've met."

"You remembered everyone else. Just not the people you should have known well." He stopped beside my chair. "Strange, don't you think?"

I looked up at him. He was standing close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I could see the grey had flecks of blue in it. Could see the exact line of that scar on his jaw.

"What are you accusing me of?" I asked.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. Yet." He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. "I'm giving you a chance to tell me the truth. Because when I find out on my own. And I will find out.I won't be nearly this patient."

His face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat coming off him, smell his cologne. My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"There's nothing to tell," I said.

"Liar." He said it softly, almost a caress. Then he straightened and walked back to his seat. "We leave in two hours. Wear something appropriate."

He picked up his tablet like the conversation hadn't happened.

I forced myself to finish breakfast even though I couldn't taste anything. Then I went back upstairs and tried not to panic.

He was testing me. Every interaction, every conversation. He was gathering evidence. And I was failing.

I needed help. Someone who knew this world and could tell me how to navigate it.

Marco. Dante's second-in-command. I'd met him briefly at the reception. He seemed less cold than Dante, and according to Sophia's notes, he'd been Dante's friend since childhood.

Maybe he could give me advice. Or at least tell me how much trouble I was actually in.

I found him in Dante's office downstairs, going through files.

"Mrs. Castellano," he said, straightening. "Is there something you need?"

"I wanted to ask you about the lunch today. I'm nervous about meeting new people."

His expression softened slightly. "The Robertsons are easy. Just be polite and let Dante do most of the talking."

"That's it?"

"That's it." He studied me for a moment. "Are you alright? You seem tense."

"It's just a lot. The wedding, the new house, everything changing so fast."

"That's understandable." He hesitated. "Can I give you some advice?"

"Please."

"Don't lie to Dante. About anything. He values loyalty above everything else, and lies are the fastest way to lose his trust." Marco's voice was serious. "Once he decides you're a threat, there's no coming back from that."

My mouth went dry. "I'm not lying about anything."

"Good. Keep it that way." He returned to his files. "The car will be ready at noon."

I left the office feeling worse than when I'd entered.

Two hours later, I was sitting in the back of the Mercedes next to Dante, wearing a dress that cost more than my car used to, headed to a lunch where I'd have to pretend to be someone I wasn't.

Again.

"Remember," Dante said as we pulled up to the restaurant. "Smile. Be charming. And if you're not sure about something, stay quiet and let me handle it."

"Got it."

"And Elena?"

My blood turned to ice. He'd said Elena. Not Sophia.

I turned to look at him slowly.

His expression was calm, almost pleasant. But his eyes were cold steel.

"Yes?" I managed.

"That is your real name, isn't it? Elena?"

The world tilted. My vision blurred at the edges. He knew. He actually knew.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I whispered.

"Yes, you do." He reached over and took my hand. To anyone watching, it would look affectionate. But his grip was firm, unyielding. "You talk in your sleep. Last night, you kept saying 'Victor.' And this morning, when the housekeeper called you Mrs. Castellano, you flinched. Like you'd forgotten that was supposed to be your name now."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

"So here's what's going to happen," Dante continued, his voice perfectly calm. "We're going to go into this restaurant. You're going to smile and play the perfect wife. And when we get home, you're going to tell me exactly who you are and what the hell you think you're doing."

"And if I don't?"

His smile was dangerous. "Then I'll find out on my own. And trust me, you don't want that."

The driver opened the door.

Dante got out, still holding my hand, and pulled me with him.

We walked into the restaurant together, his hand on my back like we were a normal married couple.

But I could feel the leashed anger in his touch.

I had until after lunch to figure out what to tell him.

And I had absolutely no idea what that was going to be.