I sign my name on the marriage certificate with a hand that won't stop shaking, binding myself forever to the man who destroyed my entire life six months ago. Dante Morelli doesn't even look at me as he scrawls his signature beside mine. His jaw is set, his expensive suit perfectly pressed, his dark eyes fixed on the document like this is just another business transaction. To him, it probably is. The officiant clears his throat. "You may kiss the bride." Dante's eyes finally meet mine. There's something cold in them. Something that makes my stomach twist. "That won't be necessary," he says. The officiant blinks, confused. My father shifts uncomfortably beside me. My mother dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief, but I know she's not crying from joy. She's crying because she knows what this marriage really is. A prison sentence. Six months ago, I had everything. I was engaged to Marcus Whitmore, heir to the Whitmore hotel empire. I was the creative director at my family's luxury fashion house, Castellano Couture. I had a reputation as one of New York's most promising young designers. Then Dante Morelli entered my life like a wrecking ball. It started with photos. Intimate photos that I never took, never posed for, but looked devastatingly real. Me with men who weren't my fiancé. Me in compromising positions. Me doing things I would never do. They were deepfakes. Sophisticated, AI-generated images that were impossible to prove false before they'd already gone viral. Within forty-eight hours, Marcus had broken off our engagement. Within a week, I'd been forced to resign from Castellano Couture to protect the brand. Within two weeks, my family's investors were pulling out, spooked by the scandal. And Dante Morelli? He bought up every single debt, every outstanding loan, every piece of leverage my family had. Then he made his offer. Marry him, and he'd forgive everything. He'd restore my family's business. He'd make the scandal disappear. Refuse, and he'd destroy what little we had left. "We should go," Dante says now, breaking into my thoughts. "The car is waiting." I follow him out of the courthouse in silence. There was no wedding. No guests. No celebration. Just a cold, legal binding that feels more like a death than a beginning. The car is a black Mercedes with tinted windows. Dante opens the door for me, and I slide inside, my simple white dress—the only concession to tradition I allowed myself—rustling against the leather seats. He gets in beside me, and suddenly the spacious car feels suffocating. "Why?" I ask. The question I've been holding back for months finally breaks free. "Why did you do this to me?" Dante stares straight ahead. "You know why. I needed a wife." "You could have any woman in New York. You didn't need to ruin me first." "I needed you," he says, and something in his voice makes my skin prickle. "That's not an answer." He turns to look at me then, really look at me, and I see something in his eyes that I can't quite name. Regret? Anger? Something darker? "No," he says quietly. "It's not." The car pulls up to a building I recognize. The Morelli Tower. Sixty floors of steel and glass in the heart of Manhattan. Dante's empire, built on real estate and investments and rumors of things far less legal. "This is where you live?" I ask. "Where we live," he corrects. "The penthouse." Of course. The penthouse. He leads me inside, through a private elevator that requires a key card, up to the sixtieth floor. The doors open directly into the apartment—a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It's beautiful. Cold and modern and beautiful. Like a very expensive cage. "Your room is down that hall," Dante says, pointing. "Mine is the opposite direction. You won't be disturbed." I turn to face him. "Separate rooms?" "Did you expect otherwise?" "I don't know what to expect from you. You forced me to marry you, but you won't even kiss me at our own wedding. You ruined my reputation, but you won't tell me why. What am I supposed to think?" Dante's jaw tightens. He takes a step closer, and I force myself not to back away. "You're supposed to think that this is a business arrangement," he says. "Nothing more." "Then why—" "Enough questions for tonight." He turns away. "You must be tired. Get some rest." He starts walking toward his side of the penthouse, and I feel something snap inside me. "I hate you," I call after him. He stops. Doesn't turn around. "I know," he says. Then he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone in my beautiful prison. I find my room. Someone has already unpacked my things—the few belongings I was allowed to bring. There's a dress laid out on the bed. Black, elegant, expensive. There's a note pinned to it in sharp, masculine handwriting. *Dinner tomorrow night. 8 PM. Wear this. We have guests.* Guests. On our first full day of marriage. I crumple the note in my fist. I don't sleep that night. I lie in the enormous bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what my life has become. The next evening, I put on the black dress because I have no choice. It fits perfectly, like it was made for me. Probably was. I find Dante in the living room at exactly 8 PM. He's wearing a tuxedo, looking every inch the powerful billionaire that he is. "Good," he says when he sees me. "You're ready." "Who are these guests?" I ask. Before he can answer, the elevator dings. The doors open, and my heart stops. Because walking into the penthouse, smiling like he owns the place, is Marcus Whitmore. My ex-fiancé. The man who abandoned me when the scandal broke. "Surprise," Marcus says, his smile widening. "Did you miss me, darling?" I look at Dante, betrayal burning in my chest. "What is this?" But Dante's not looking at me. He's looking at Marcus, and there's something in his expression that makes my blood run cold. "Tell her," Dante says quietly. "Tell her what you did." Marcus's smile falters. "Dante, we had a deal—" "The deal's off." Dante's voice is ice. "Tell her, or I will." I look between them, my mind racing. "Tell me what?" Marcus's face goes pale. He looks at me, and I see something I've never seen before. Fear. "The photos," he says finally. "The deepfakes. I'm the one who made them." The room tilts. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself. "What?" "I needed out of the engagement," Marcus continues, words tumbling out now. "My family was going bankrupt. I needed to marry someone with real money, not just a fashion house drowning in debt. So I created the scandal to break things off without looking like the bad guy." I can't breathe. Can't think. "You destroyed my life because you needed an exit strategy?" "It was just business, Sophia. Nothing personal." "Nothing personal?" My voice is rising. "You humiliated me. You made the entire world think I was—" "And I bought every piece of evidence," Dante interrupts. "Every file, every backup, every trace of what he did. I have it all." I turn to him. "You knew? This whole time, you knew it was Marcus?" "Yes." "Then why didn't you tell me? Why did you force me to marry you instead of just—" "Because Marcus owed me money," Dante says. "A lot of money. And when he couldn't pay, he offered me something else." My stomach drops. "What?" Dante's eyes meet mine, and I see the truth before he speaks it. "He offered me you."