Chapter 4 Fear Sets In

Aura didn't remember leaving the east salon.

Her feet carried her down the corridor like they no longer belonged to her; her fingers clutched the photograph with enough force to leave creases in the thick paper. The man's square jaw, hollow eyes, and lips curled into the faintest smirk were burned into her mind. So was the word written beneath it in red ink: Next.

She didn't know him. That was the worst part. It wasn't someone she loved. It wasn't someone she'd wronged. It was a stranger. And Dante had looked her in the eye and used him like a pawn- no, a warning. Obey, or someone dies.

In the quiet of her room, she stared at the photograph again. "Who is he?" she whispered to herself. "Why is he next?"

As if answering her, the camera in the corner blinked. Just once. Just enough to remind her: you are never alone here.

Her stomach twisted. She hadn't touched breakfast. Lunch had come and gone with no one summoning her. Dinner was hours away, but her hunger was buried under a thick coat of nausea and dread.

She tried to focus on something normal, anything but even the luxury around her felt hostile. The silk sheets. The imported rugs. The chandelier dripping light from the ceiling like silent tears. All of it was a cage dressed in gold.

She didn't cry. That surprised her. She thought she would. But fear did something strange to the body- it didn't always break it down. Sometimes it froze it completely.

Renata arrived later, knocking once before stepping in with her usual efficiency. She glanced at the untouched tea and stale bread Aura hadn't touched.

"I'll bring something fresh," she offered, but Aura shook her head.

"Who is the man in the photograph?" she asked suddenly.

Renata's hands paused at the edge of the tray. Her expression didn't change, but the silence that followed was louder than any answer.

"I'm not supposed to ask questions," Aura murmured.

Renata straightened. "And I'm not allowed to answer them."

"Right," Aura said bitterly. "Rules."

After Renata left, Aura walked the room again, trying every drawer, every window. She knew the doors were locked, but she needed to move. To feel something other than helpless.

When she passed the full-length mirror beside the armoire, she paused. The woman staring back didn't look like Aura.

She was pale. Her posture hunched slightly, as if expecting another blow. Her eyes, once soft and curious, now held a tension she couldn't place.

You're not just a bride. You're a message.

Dante's words wouldn't leave her.

What kind of message? What kind of man marries a woman to prove a point? She wasn't a trophy-he barely looked at her. She wasn't arm candy- he'd barely touched her.

So what was she?

The knock at the door this time was sharper.

Mrs. Cossimo entered without waiting. "Signor Moretti requests your presence in the dining hall at eight sharp. Formal attire."

Aura didn't move. "And if I say no?"

Mrs. Cossimo's lips barely moved. "Then someone else says goodbye."

It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.

Aura nodded. "I'll be ready."

When the door closed again, she sank to the edge of the bed and finally let her hands tremble.

She dressed in silence that evening. A navy gown had been laid out for floor-length silk with sheer sleeves and a neckline that dipped lower than she liked. Still, she wore it. There were worse things now than exposed skin.

Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as Renata escorted her to the grand dining room. The doors were massive, carved oak with gold handles that gleamed under the low chandeliers.

Inside, the table was long enough to seat twenty. But only two chairs were occupied- Dante at the head, and a man she didn't recognise to his left.

Aura paused at the threshold. The man looked up first. He smiled-wolfish, charming, and utterly unreadable.

"This must be the wife," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

Dante stood, motioning toward the seat across from him. "Aura. Sit."

She obeyed, her movements stiff. The stranger poured her wine without asking, then raised his own glass in a mock toast.

"To survival," he said.

Dante's gaze didn't leave her. "Aura, this is Lorenzo Valente. He's a business associate."

Aura tried to keep her expression neutral. A business associate. In this world, that could mean anything from financier to assassin.

Lorenzo chuckled. "You know, I wasn't invited to the wedding. I assumed you didn't want too many witnesses."

"It wasn't a celebration," Dante said coldly.

Aura's fork hovered over her plate. She felt like an exhibit, something to be watched and studied. Even Lorenzo's gaze had weight, and Dante's silence only magnified it.

When dessert was sserveddelicate pastry dusted in gold leaf- Lorenzoleaned back, eyes still on her.

"So tell me, Signora Moretti. Are you happy?"

The question landed like a knife.

Aura smiled tightly. "I don't think that's relevant."

Lorenzo laughed, low and delighted. "Smart. She'll survive longer than I thought."

Dante said nothing, but his fingers curled around his wineglass with quiet tension.

Dinner ended with no answers, only more questions. As Aura was escorted back to her room, she noticed something new.

The portrait in the hallway- one of the Moretti ancestors- had been slashed across the throat. A diagonal gash from canvas to frame.

Aura stopped, her heart slamming in her chest.

Renata followed her gaze. "That wasn't there this morning."

"Who did it?"

Renata didn't answer. Just urged her forward with a hand on her back.

Aura didn't sleep that night, either.

She sat by the window, watching the grounds outside. The gardens were bathed in moonlight, so peaceful it almost felt surreal.

But inside this house, the fear was growing roots.

Not just of Dante. Not even of the man in the photo or the slashed portrait, or Lorenzo Valente.

No, the fear was deeper now.

Because she was beginning to understand something terrifying:

She wasn't afraid of dying.

She was afraid of what she might become to survive.

As the moon dipped lower, Aura turned away from the window and froze.

On her pillow lay another envelope.

No footsteps. No sound. Just the silent promise of another threat.

This time, there was no photo inside.

Just a single line of text:

"Your move."