Page 376 of Rosetti Family New York
"Good." He straightens his shirt, that easy charm sliding back into place like armor. "I'll take you shopping tomorrow. Something appropriate for the occasion."
He heads for the door, but pauses at the threshold. When he turns back, there's something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Not the controlled desire from moments before, but something rawer. More vulnerable.
"Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For trusting me."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the golden afternoon light with the taste of him still on my lips and the phantom pressure of his hand still burning against my skin.
I slide down the bookshelf until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs too shaky to support me anymore. The grandfather clock continues its steady ticking, indifferent to the chaos he's left in his wake. Fury at myself rises hot and bitter in my throat. What the hell is wrong with me? I should have fought harder. I should have pushed him away the moment he touched me. Instead, I melted like some pathetic, starved thing desperate for attention.
He's my captor. The man who kidnapped me, who's holding me here against my will, who treats me like property to be managed and controlled. And I just let him put his hands on me. Let him make me want things I have no business wanting.
Three months ago, I was living my quiet, controlled life in Tribeca, cataloging artifacts and attending charity functions and pretending that everything was fine. I had boundaries. I had self-respect.
Now I'm sitting on the floor of a safehouse library, having just agreed to be paraded around on the arm of the man who kidnapped me. Having just admitted that I want him to touch me. Having just proven that five days of captivity is apparently all it takes to turn me into someone I don't recognize.
My breast still burns where his palm claimed me, the memory of his touch making me ache in ways I don't want to examine. In three days, I'm going to walk into the Plaza Hotel on Matteo Rosetti's arm, in front of Chase and half of New York society, and pretend that I chose to be there.
The terrifying part isn't the pretending.
The terrifying part is that some twisted part of me is looking forward to it.
9
Matteo
Friday night arrives like a held breath finally released.
The black dress hangs on Isabella's closet door where I left it this morning, sleek fabric that will cling to every curve I've memorized through stolen glances and surveillance feeds. The emerald earrings rest in their velvet box on the dresser, chosen specifically to bring out the green in her eyes. Everything calculated, planned, executed.
Just like the woman wearing it all.
I adjust the cufflinks on my black tux, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror. No tie tonight. The clean lines of the jacket are severe, dangerous. Exactly the image I want to project when I walk into the Callahan Foundation Gala with Isabella on my arm.
Chase won't be there. Too obvious, too risky after everything that's happened this week. But his people will be watching. His allies, his donors, his carefully cultivated network of influence. They'll all see Isabella Callahan, radiant and untouchable, choosing to be with me.
The message will be clear: she's mine now.
My phone buzzes with a text from Anton. The car is ready downstairs. I flip my lucky coin once, twice, the familiar weight centering me as I walk down the hall toward Isabella's room. Through the thick walls, I can hear soft classical music playing. The same playlist she's been listening to every night since I brought her here.
I knock twice before entering. She stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, and the sight of her steals whatever words I'd planned to say. The dress fits like it was made for her body, black silk that pools at her feet and leaves her shoulders bare. Her honey-blonde hair is pinned up in an elegant chignon, and those emerald earrings catch the lamplight.
"You look..." I stop, clear my throat. Since when do I struggle for words around a woman? "Beautiful doesn't cover it."
She turns, and I see that her makeup is flawless, her expression composed. But there's something fragile around her eyes, a tension that makes me want to cross the room and pull her against me until she relaxes. I remember how she felt when I pressed her against the bookshelf, how her breast filled my palm and her pulse raced under my fingers.
"The dress fits well." Her voice is polite, distant. The same tone she used during our first breakfast conversations. "Thank you."
"Isabella." I step closer, watching her hands where they rest at her sides. Steady, controlled. But I remember how they trembled when I held her throat, how her breathing changed when I claimed her mouth. "Are you ready for this?"
"I agreed to your terms." She meets my gaze directly. "I'll smile when you touch me. I'll stay close. I won't run."
