It had been seven days since my father was lowered into the ground and my uncle climbed into his place.

Seven days since the halls of the Moretti estate began to feel less like a home and more like a beautifully furnished prison.

I stayed in my room, mostly. Mourning. Thinking. Replaying every second of that night until sleep became a stranger.

But hunger has no etiquette.

So that morning, I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and descended the staircase barefoot. The silence of the house clung to the walls like smoke. Every step echoed like I had no right to take it.

The dining hall was quiet.

Until I saw him.

Cesare sat at the head of the long table with his plate untouched, his coffee steaming. He looked perfectly at ease, reading the newspaper like he owned not just the estate, but the morning itself.

I paused at the threshold.

"Good morning, Valeria," he said without looking up.

I didn’t respond.

I moved to the sideboard, poured myself a cup of coffee, ignoring the way his eyes followed every motion.

"I’ve assigned you two bodyguards," he said casually. "They'll be with you at all times. For your protection."

I turned slowly.

"Protection? Or surveillance?"

He smiled. "There are many who would love to harm the daughter of Alessio Moretti."

I took a slow sip. Let the burn center me.

"And how does keeping me locked in the house keep them away?"

His eyes didn’t blink. "You won’t be leaving the villa until the wedding."

"So I’m a prisoner now."

"No," he said. "You’re a bride."

My jaw clenched. "This isn’t protection. It’s control. You’re not shielding me. You’re caging me."

He folded the newspaper neatly and placed it aside.

"Call it what you want. But it changes nothing. The wedding is in three days."

Three days.

I stared at him, waiting for a smirk. A hint of mockery.

There was none.

Only certainty.

Cold, cruel certainty.

I set the coffee cup down without finishing it.

Then I turned and walked away.

Not because I accepted it.

But because now I knew the countdown had started.

And I would rather burn down the house than walk down that aisle.

That afternoon, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

I opened it to find a smiling woman with two assistants behind her, arms full of garment bags.

"I’m here for your final fitting, Miss Moretti," she said, with her tone bright. "Your uncle said you should choose something that compliments your eyes."

My stomach turned.

She laid out a row of dresses across the table. White, ivory, cream, lace, silk.

"We can begin with the Valentino or the custom Armani," she chirped. "The lacework is hand-stitched, imported from France."

"I won’t be needing a dress," I said.

She paused, her smile faltering. "I... I was told to have you select today."

"And I’m telling you I won’t be selecting anything."

She hesitated, glancing nervously toward the hallway.

Then came the footsteps.

Heavy. Certain.

Cesare.

He entered the room like it belonged to him.

"What’s the problem here?"

"She’s refusing to choose a gown, sir," the stylist said, shrinking back.

Cesare looked at me. "Is this your latest tantrum?"

I lifted my chin. "I’m not wearing a dress to a wedding I didn’t agree to."

Something snapped in his face.

And then his hand snapped across mine.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each slap sharper than the last. I felt not just pain but also humiliation.

The stylist gasped. The assistants turned away.

"You ungrateful brat," he spat. "My brother let you think you had power. That ends now."

I held my cheek, refusing to cry.

"Take her to her room," he barked at the guards. "She doesn’t leave unless I say so. And if she tries to act out again be sure to discipline her."

The guards grabbed my arms. I struggled, but it was useless.

I was dragged back like a prisoner in my own home.

It was then I realized whatever softness had once lived in Cesare if any had ever existed, was long gone.

He wasn’t trying to protect me.

He was trying to erase me.

I didn’t know how long I cried.

Hours, maybe. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and my room now glowed in that purplish dimness where day refuses to die.

My cheeks ached. My eyes burned. My throat was dry from the silence.

The phone lay on the nightstand. Every time I glanced at it, I hoped to see a message. A missed call. Anything. But there was nothing. Not from Dario. Not from anyone.

I had no friends.

Not real ones.

Just my now ex, who’d abandoned me to save himself. And a house full of enemies who wore my family name like a mask.

But there was one person I hadn’t thought of until now.

Aunt Lucia.

My father’s cousin. Not part of the business, at least not openly. She was one of the few people who had spoken to me like I mattered when I was a girl. When Mama died, Lucia used to braid my hair and whisper that strength didn’t always roar. Sometimes it was quiet.

I dialed her number with trembling hands.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Then she picked up.

"Valeria."

Her voice was warm. Familiar.

"Zia," I breathed, relief thick in my throat. "I didn’t know who else to call."

A pause.

"You shouldn’t have."

My relief shriveled.

"I’m being held here. He hit me. And now he’s forcing me to marry someone I don’t want to. I have no one, Zia. Please."

Another pause.

Then: "Your uncle is trying to keep the peace."

I sat up straight. "Peace? He’s imprisoning me. This isn’t about peace, it’s control."

Her voice dropped. "You don’t understand what your father left behind. What kind of enemies he made."

"So I’m supposed to pay the price?"

"If it protects the family, yes."

Silence.

I felt like I’d been punched again.

"Lucia... I thought you were different."

She sighed. "I was. But different doesn’t matter anymore. Not when war is close. Please, Valeria. Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t do anything that would put us all at risk."

Click.

She ended the call.

Just like that.

Even she was gone.

The walls didn’t need to close in on me.

They already had.

I barely had time to sit with the silence before the door slammed open.

Cesare stormed in, red-faced and furious. "Who were you talking to?!"

I instinctively clutched my phone.

He snatched it from my hand without warning.

"You think you can go behind my back and start calling people? You’re not allowed to speak to anyone outside these walls."

I stood my ground. "You don’t get to decide who I call."

He stepped closer, eyes blazing. "I do. I absolutely do. As long as you are in this house and bearing my family’s name, you obey."

He turned toward the guards stationed outside my door. "How the hell did she still have a phone?"

They hesitated, one stammering, "We thought she only had access to..."

"You don’t think. You follow orders!" he bellowed.

He turned back to me, voice sharp as a blade. "From now on, no communication. No visitors. No more chances."

He left with the door wide open behind him.

Now I had all the space in the world.

Just not the freedom to step outside it.