CHAPTER 5

The door slammed loudly behind me, and I let out a long shaky breath, trying to shake off the chill Nicolas had left in me. His eyes, that cold, intense gaze of his, lingered in my mind like a scarred memory. The nerve of him—ordering me to change my wardrobe, like I had no say in the matter, like what i could wear was a choice he could make. How dare he? He wasn’t my father, and he sure as hell wasn’t my boss. But somehow, in that moment, it felt like he was both.

I had barely closed my bedroom door when my mother’s voice rang through the house, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“There you are! Where have you been?” she called, marching into the room her heels clicking fast on the floor. “Get in the closet, we need to get you ready. For God’s sake, Isabella, what are you wearing?”

Before I could even react, she was already tugging at the fabric of my dress, pulling me toward the walk-in closet with an urgency that left no room for argument. I didn’t resist. My body moved like it was on autopilot, my mind still tangled in Nicolas’s words, in the weight of everything that had just happened.

I barely heard her question, when she asked “What’s with you?” as she started yanking at the hem of my dress.

I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, “Nothing.”

She didn’t buy it. She never did. She just gave me a pointed look before turning to the dresses laid out on the bench—all her choices, not mine. I had a feeling she wouldn’t even let me choose, not when it came to making the perfect impression.

“I can’t believe you don’t own a single decent dress,” she said, disapproval heavy in her tone.

I rolled my eyes. “What’s wrong with the dresses I have?” I shot back, defensive. It wasn’t like I had ever been one to attend these high-society events. I hated the backstabbing, the insincerity and pretence. My dresses were simple, and comfortable.

She didn’t even look at me for approval when she raised three dresses from the pile, all more conservative than anything I’d ever worn. They were Audrey Hepburn-inspired, yes, but retro? That wasn’t me, in the slightest. She held up a sky-blue dress, dotted with white spots. “Don’t you have anything solid-colored?” she asked, like I was the one who had failed her.

“No,” I replied, irritation creeping into my voice. Did she ever actually look at my wardrobe? Or take notice of what i use to wear ?

My father had always been very lenient when it came to what I wore. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he understood my sense of independence. It was my mother who enforced these ridiculous stupid standards that benefited no one but her ego.

With a loud sigh, she handed me the blue dress. “This matches your eyes. Let’s just hope Nicolas isn’t put off by the ridiculous style.”

I slipped into the dress in silence, Nicolas’s earlier words—his comments about my clothes and my bangs—echoing in my head like a loud reminder. He couldn't just keep his thoughts to himself.

My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Put on some makeup, Isabella. You need to look older,” she called, already heading toward the door.

I shot her a look, frustration evident on my face, but she was gone before I could say anything, her voice trailing after her. “And wear heels!”

I stood there for a moment, blinking away the hot sting behind my eyes. Tears clouding my vision, I wasn’t the kind of girl who wore makeup often, but today, I piled it on. I needed to be what they wanted—what Nicolas wanted, as much as i hated this and hated to admit it.

I still couldn’t shake the fear that gripped my chest. I could pretend, wear the dress, put on the makeup, but I knew deep down that Nicolas wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t someone I could simply smile at and make things go away.

I grabbed a pair of blue heels and took slow steps to my vanity, glancing at my reflection. The woman staring back at me looked different, adsent—but more polished, like someone who was trying too hard to fit into a life that wasn’t hers.

By the time I made my way downstairs, I had collected myself, at least on the surface. My smile was steady, but my chest still felt really tight, as though the weight of it all was pressing against my lungs, choking the air out of my lungs. As I walked into the room, my father’s hand wrapped around mine, his warmth felt like the release i wanted but distant cause soon I'd be caged.

He guided me towards the inevitable. Nicolas stood there, his expression neutral, blank even; his eyes scanning me with the precision of someone who saw everything and nothing at once.

“Nicolas, meet my daughter, Isabella,” my father said, his voice strangely cautious, almost as though he was warning Nicolas to tread lightly.

Nicolas’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was more of a cold acknowledgment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabella,” he said, his voice like smooth stone as he took my hand and kissed it. His touch made me shiver and not in a good way, my fingers trembling in his grip.

His eyes locked onto mine, assessing me like a puzzle he was trying to unravel, and instinctively, I straightened my back, my posture rigid. “The pleasure is all mine, s—Nicolas,” I stammered, catching myself before the formality of “sir” slipped out.

I could feel my father’s gaze flicking between us, and for the first time since all these drama began, I saw something close to regret in his eyes. It was as if he’d realized, too late, what he had done. He had sold me to this man.

But Nicolas didn’t seem to notice—or care. He turned to the man standing beside him. “This is Faro, my right-hand man and Consigliere,” he said smoothly, like he was presenting an object rather than a person; emotionless and casual.

I extended my hand to Faro, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he offered a nod, his face a mask. I quickly withdrew my hand, feeling embarrassment bite and chew on my insides. Moving a little closer to my father, I could almost feel the sick satisfaction that bloomed inside me. It was small, but it was there. My father was realizing now, at the price of his own decisions, that he had no control over what was happening or what would happen.

Nicolas didn’t let the silence linger. “I’ll be sending a new wardrobe for Isabella,” he continued, his voice still casual. “Please have your wife take her measurements. I need a woman at my side, not a girl.”

The words hit me like a slap. My father’s patience finally broke. “Maybe this was a mistake,” he muttered, his voice low, barely a whisper. “I should cancel the agreement.”

Nicolas moved in front of him, his eyes cold and dark. “We shook hands on this engagement, Felix,” he said, his voice firm and somewhat commanding. “We settled things with Luca. Everything is done. Given that we decided against a separate engagement, that makes Isabella my fiancée. And I’m telling you now, nobody—not even you—will stop this marriage.”

I held my breath, fisting my hands by my sides as i watched my father, the man who ruled this city, shuddered under Nicolas’s presence. He wasn’t the powerful figure I thought he was, not in this moment. To Nicolas, he was nothing.

My father lowered his gaze, a defeated sigh slipping from him. “I have no intention of canceling our arrangement. I was just making a point,” he said, and I could hear the regret clear in his voice.

Before Nicolas could respond, my mother entered, blissfully unaware of the tension looming in the air. “Dinner is ready!” she announced, her smile faltering when she saw the stiff atmosphere in the room.

Nicolas offered me his arm, and I glanced at my father one last time, every form of hope vanishing from my eyes. He couldn't meet my gaze. The message was clear. Nicolas was in charge now From this moment on, I belonged to him.

I placed my hand on Nicolas’s arm, feeling a lump rise in my throat as I tried not to cry. If my father couldn’t protect me, I’d have to protect myself.

Nicolas led me into the dining room, following my mother’s never ending chatter about wedding colors. I knew Nicolasdidn’t care about any of it. He didn’t have to pretend. He was the one who would shape my life now. I was just the bride who had to smile and pretend to be happy.

As we reached the table, Nicolas pulled out my chair for me. “Thank you,” I muttered, sitting down and smoothing the ends of my dress.

He sat across from me, his eyes never leaving me. I could feel his gaze studying every detail—my bangs, my earrings—and I knew, deep down, he was calculating how he would change me, mold me into the wife he expected, the one he wanted.

I met his gaze. I wouldn’t back down. I had always used my smile, my charm, to get what I wanted in this world, but Nicolas? He wasn’t someone I could bend that easily.

A week later, two large packages arrived at the house. Designer dresses, skirts, blouses—Max Mara, Chanel, Ted Baker. My mother was giddy as she unpacked them, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel excited. They were beautiful, yes, but they didn't reflect me .

I understood why he did it—Nicolas wanted me to look the part, to be the perfect wife image for the public eye. But the fact that he bought these clothes without consulting me or knowing my choices? That stung, and made me hate the gesture as it spoke volumes. It made it clear. My opinion didn’t matter. Because, in the end, I didn’t either.