Chapter 2 Damian's Terms

Alina didn't sleep.

Not because the bed was unfamiliar, or because the silk sheets felt too luxurious, too heavy against her skin-but because every second she closed her eyes, she saw his face.

Damian Moretti. Cold. Precise. Ruthless.

And her supposed fiancé.

The very word made her stomach turn.

She sat upright in bed as the sun filtered in through the cracks in the velvet curtains. Morning. She had survived the night-but only barely. Every nerve in her body was still coiled, ready to fight or flee.

A soft knock on the door startled her.

Before she could answer, it opened.

A woman entered, mid-thirties, dressed in a modest black dress with her hair pinned in a neat bun. She carried a tray with food-eggs, toast, coffee, and something sweet she couldn't name.

"I'm Lucia," the woman said. "Mr. Moretti asked me to bring your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Alina muttered.

Lucia gave a small smile. "I said the same thing once. Eat. You'll need strength."

Alina looked up. "You work for him?"

"I work for this house. I serve whoever wears the crown."

"And right now, that's him?"

Lucia didn't answer directly. "Your bath has been drawn. You'll meet Mr. Moretti in the parlor in one hour. He asked you to wear white."

Alina's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Lucia hesitated, her expression faltering for just a breath. "He's old-fashioned. He believes in symbolism."

Alina scoffed. "Symbolism or control?"

Lucia didn't answer. She simply set the tray down and left as quietly as she had come.

Alina stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in a silk robe she found draped across the bed. On a nearby hanger was the dress-ivory lace, long sleeves, fitted at the waist, high neckline. Elegant and soft. The kind of dress you'd expect to see at a mafia princess's engagement party.

It made her feel like a pawn.

But her fury made her strong.

She slipped into the dress, combed her damp hair back, and walked herself down the endless hallway to the parlor. She refused to be escorted like a pet.

The parlor was grand-tall ceilings, gold-framed art, marble floors polished to perfection. Damian sat by the fireplace, a glass of dark liquor in his hand despite the early hour. He stood when she entered, his eyes sweeping over her without a hint of shame.

"You clean up well," he said.

Alina crossed her arms. "I'm not here for compliments. Say what you have to say."

Damian gave a small nod. "Very well. Sit."

She didn't move.

He raised a brow. "Alina."

She sat, slowly, legs crossed like a queen, even though her heart hammered with rage. "Talk."

"This marriage will happen in three days."

"Or what?" she asked.

Damian's gaze didn't waver. "Or your father loses his business license. Your mother's medical care mysteriously vanishes. And your younger cousin's university application gets flagged for criminal activity."

Alina's breath hitched. "You've looked into my family."

"I've known everything about you since the day you were born."

"You're a psychopath."

"I'm a realist. You're in my world now. And in my world, leverage is everything."

She clenched her jaw. "So what are your terms, exactly? Be your trophy wife? Sit in the corner and smile while you murder people?"

Damian leaned back, amused. "You'll be my wife in name. We'll share a home, a title. But nothing else is expected unless you offer it."

Alina narrowed her eyes. "So I'm just a puppet to legitimize your empire?"

"No," he said softly. "You're a shield. A Cruz in my court makes me untouchable-for now."

She shook her head. "What if I say no?"

"You already did. That didn't stop me."

He stood, walked to the mantel, and picked up a small black box.

He opened it and pulled out a ring.

It was massive. An emerald-cut diamond with twisted gold bands-vintage, antique, regal.

He crossed the room and held it out. "Wear it."

She stared at it. "You're joking."

Damian stepped closer. "I never joke."

Alina took the box from his hand and closed it. "Not yet. Maybe on our third date."

For the first time, Damian almost smiled.

Almost.

Later that evening, she stood by the window of her new bedroom-the one that looked over a private garden, surrounded by high stone walls and guards with earpieces.

Trapped.

Not by chains.

But by pressure.

Every choice felt like a knife against someone she loved. Damian hadn't just captured her; he had caged her whole life.

She opened the box and stared at the ring again.

Beautiful.

And poisonous.

A symbol of everything wrong with this world-and everything she would one day bring down.

Because if Damian Moretti thought she would break, he didn't know her at all.

She slid the ring onto her finger.

And began planning.