Page 16

"Ms. Castellano?" A woman's voice, aged but firm. "Mr. Ravelli asked me to help you dress for the day."

I don't respond, but the door opens anyway.

The lady is younger than I expected, perhaps in her forties, with blond hair pulled back severely from a face mapped with the fine lines of an already difficult life.

She carries clothing draped over one arm, her posture straight as a soldier's, like she's just a duplicate of my own self.

"I'm Elise," she says, setting the clothes on the bed. "I've managed this household since Dante Ravelli took over."

I study her, searching for weakness, for sympathy, for anything I might leverage. "Okay… And did you help dress the other women he's kept prisoner here?"

A flash of understanding crosses her face, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second.

"You're the first," she answers, unfolding what appears to be yet another black dress. Dante obviously prefers me in black,just like the man himself. "Mr. Ravelli doesn't usually keep... companions."

"I'm not his companion," I correct Elise sharply. "I'm his captive."

She meets my gaze, and for the first time, I notice the faint scar trailing from her right ear down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar. A wound healed long ago, but permanently marked.

"In this house, there's little difference," she says quietly, her fingers efficiently arranging the outfit. "He's expecting you for breakfast in thirty minutes. The bathroom is stocked with everything you need to make yourself appear pleasing for him."

Pleasing? What the fuck?

I don't move. "And if I refuse?"

Elise pauses, her expression unchanging but something in her eyes softening. She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper as she adjusts the dress's neckline.

"Dante Ravelli is known to break his toys when he's angry," she murmurs, so quietly I barely catch the words. "But I'm sure, by looking at you, that you will be smarter than the others."

Before I can question what she means by "others," she straightens, professional mask back in place.

"Thirty minutes, Ms. Castellano. Don't make either of us regret it."

The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with her warning echoing in my mind.

I choose the dress—not out of obedience, but strategy. My father taught me to preserve strength for battles that matter, to recognize when temporary surrender serves the greater goal.

The black fabric slides against my skin, fitting perfectly.

I wonder how Dante knew my exact measurements, then decide I'd rather not know. The garment is modest by most standards. A high neckline, hem reaching my knees, but it still clings to every curve with a sensual grip.

When I enter the dining room, Dante is already seated at the head of a glossy black table. He's wearing another immaculate suit, this one charcoal gray, his dark hair perfectly styled like he's fresh from the barber shop, those predatory eyes fixed on a stack of reports spread before him.

"Ah huh. Exactly thirty minutes," he observes without looking up. "Impressive punctuality, princess."

"Elise was quite persuasive," I reply, remaining in the doorway.

He gestures to the chair at his right hand. "Sit. Eat."

The table is laden with a breakfast spread that would suit royalty. Fresh pastries, fruits, eggs, meats, coffee steaming in fine china.

My stomach tightens with hunger that I refuse to acknowledge.

"I'm not hungry."

Now he looks up, those cold gray eyes making my skin shiver. "You haven't eaten properly in three days. A body as beautiful as that requires nourishment, whether your pride accepts it or not."

"My body is none of your concern," I reply, though the words ring hollow given the mark he's etched into my flesh.