~02~

Carmela Russo~

I wake up before the sun does. My pillow is damp, my eyes raw and swollen. For a moment, in that soft gray hush between dreams and daylight, I almost forget. I almost believe I'm still just a girl in her big soft bed, safe behind a locked door, free to dream of love like the stories promised.

But the memory slams back into me all at once — Papa's cold voice, the echo of my own shouting, the truth that no lock on my door can keep the world out.

I push the blankets off and sit on the edge of the bed. My bones feel heavy. I can hear the house waking up around me — footsteps in the hall, the distant clink of fine china in the dining room, someone whispering orders to someone else who'll pretend not to hear. The same morning music of this house. But I'm not the same.

I stand up, my knees shaky for a second, but I force them to hold me. I cross to the vanity, avoiding my own reflection until I have no choice. When I look, I almost laugh — red eyes, tangled hair, yesterday's storm still clinging to my skin. Not the daughter he wants to show off. Not the prize the mafia expects.

But that's who they'll get. They'll get me. Broken edges and all.

I splash my face with cold water. It doesn't wash away the truth, but it wakes me up. I pull open my wardrobe and stare at row after row of dresses — silk, satin, velvet — all picked by stylists who know nothing about me. I choose the simplest one I can find: pale blue, long sleeves, soft fabric that makes me look small and harmless. It feels like armor in its own quiet way.

A maid knocks, timid. "Miss? Your father says... your fiancé will arrive soon."

My fiancé. The word makes my stomach twist. A stranger whose name I barely know — a man with power, money, secrets, and blood on his hands. And soon, my name will be his name. My freedom, his prize.

I nod without turning around. "Tell Papa I'll be ready."

She hesitates — I see it in the mirror. The pity. The fear. She leaves before I can see it on her face any longer.

I brush my hair until it shines. I line my eyes, dab color onto my lips, like pretty lies painted on cracked porcelain. I slip on my mother's pearl earrings — the only thing in this house that still feels like it belongs to me.

When I'm done, I sit on the edge of the bed again, smoothing my skirt over my knees. I fold my hands in my lap so he won't see them tremble.

Outside my window, the garden is waking up too — roses and marble statues and trimmed hedges so perfect they look fake. I wonder if he'll want me to pose out there beside him for photos. I wonder if he'll smile for the cameras while I stand next to him like a doll on display.

I take a deep breath. It catches in my throat, but I force it out.

This is my fate. My cage. My choice now is simple: bend or break.

I hear the rumble of a car in the driveway — low, expensive, a sound that says power in a language Papa speaks fluently. I stand and smooth my dress one more time. I check my reflection — no cracks showing. Not yet.

I unlock my door and step into the hallway, where two maids stand waiting to fuss over the last threads on my shoulders, the last hairs out of place. I let them.

Papa waits at the bottom of the stairs. When he sees me, he smiles — that proud, hollow smile I hate so much. "Good girl," he says under his breath as I reach him. His hand closes around mine. Cold. Heavy.

I nod, silent. What is there left to say?

Together, we walk toward the grand doors. Toward the car. Toward the stranger who will claim me like a deed signed in my father's study.

My steps echo in this palace like a drumbeat for a funeral.

I lift my chin. I make myself breathe. I tell myself I am more than this dress, more than this name, more than this deal.

Maybe he'll own my life. But my heart? That's still mine. For now.