CHAPTER TWO

BRIELLE

I’d faced editors, critics, looming deadlines, and even my mother’s exhausting charity luncheons where everyone wore fake smiles and judged you by the firmness of your handshake.

But nothing..absolutely nothing prepared me for the bone-deep dread of slipping into a dress to meet my future husband.

“This is insane,” I whispered.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked… composed. Elegant, even.

Soft silk clung to her frame in delicate folds, the muted ivory fabric falling off one shoulder in a way that screamed expensive. My long red hair had been twisted into an intricate updo, pinned and sprayed until it obeyed every angle. A few carefully loosened strands framed my face — just enough to look effortless. My makeup was polished: warm blush, defined brows, a subtle shimmer on my eyelids that brought out the bright, unnaturally vivid blue of my eyes.

Objectively? I looked like I belonged in this world.

But underneath the surface? I was unraveling.

My stomach twisted with nerves, my palms were damp, and my thoughts kept circling back to one name.

Damian Moretti.

The name that had haunted my dreams all night. A stranger I’d never met. A man I was supposed to smile at over dinner and pretend I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

My father hadn’t asked. He’d decided. Like I was a goddamn stock option he was trading for a more favorable alliance.

I reached up to tug at the neckline of the dress, suddenly hating how snug it felt around my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Not really.

The door clicked open behind me.

“I knocked,” came my mother’s voice—soft, clipped, and mildly annoyed. “You didn’t answer.”

I didn’t turn around.

In the mirror, I watched her approach, graceful as always, dressed in a sleek black evening gown that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her pearl earrings shimmered under the light, and her signature chignon hadn’t moved a strand.

She came to stand behind me, her gaze sweeping over my reflection like a critic inspecting a painting.

“Hm,” she murmured. “Stand up straight.”

I did. Automatically.

She adjusted one of the shoulder straps with the precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Then she smoothed a wrinkle near my waist and frowned.

“You look lovely,” she said. “But your posture ruins the lines of the dress.”

“Good to know,” I muttered.

She ignored the sarcasm. Of course she did.

Reaching for a makeup brush, she dabbed lightly at my cheekbone. “You need more warmth. You’re pale.”

“I’m nervous.”

“That too.”

She stepped back and gave a final once-over. Her expression didn’t soften, but something in her eyes flickered — concern maybe. It was always hard to tell with her.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” she said finally, adjusting the clasp on my necklace. “But it’s necessary. For the family. For your future.”

“For his empire,” I corrected.

Her lips pressed into a line. “Sometimes we don’t get to choose who we fall in love with. But sometimes… we don’t get to choose who we marry either. And there’s a difference.”

My heart sank. “You think I’ll fall in love with him?”

“I think you’ll learn to live with it.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on my chest like stone.

“For once…” My voice cracked, but I pushed through it. “For once, could you just act like my mom?”

She froze halfway to the door.

“Not Lancaster PR manager. Not Dad’s perfect accessory. Not the woman who sees my life as a checklist of strategic moves.”

Slowly, she turned to face me.

“I’m your daughter,” I whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m scared. I’m angry. And I don’t want this. I don’t even know this man, and in a few minutes, I’m supposed to sit across from him and pretend like I’m okay with tying my life to his just because it makes good business sense?”

Her expression flickered. For a second, something raw moved behind her eyes — regret, maybe. Or recognition. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

“I am acting like your mother, Brielle,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’m trying to protect you. In the only way I know how.”

“By handing me off to a stranger?”

“By ensuring you have security. A future. A partner who can match your ambition and protect your name.”

I shook my head, stunned at how detached she sounded.

“You don’t even know if he’s kind,” I said quietly. “If he treats people like they matter. If he’ll see me as anything more than a tool for leverage.”

She didn’t answer.

Because she couldn’t.

Silence stretched between us, thick and bitter.

Then she looked down, adjusting the clasp of her clutch with trembling fingers. “Wear the diamond studs. They’re subtle, but expensive enough to show respect.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to embarrass the brand.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at me again.

She just opened the door and left, heels clicking down the hallway like a gavel on polished marble.

And just like that, she was gone.

I stared at the closed door for a second, then back at the stranger in the mirror — back at the girl in silk and heels who was about to meet the man she was being sold to.

Damian Moretti.

The heels of my shoes clicked against the marble floor as I made my way down the hallway, each step echoing like a countdown. My pulse beat louder than it should have, my stomach a knot of nerves wrapped in silk.

By the time I reached the dining room, I wasn’t sure if I was breathing.

The butler opened the door for me with a quiet, practiced nod.

“Miss Brielle.”

I stepped in.

Everything was exactly as expected—opulent, cold, and perfect in the way Lancaster dinners always were. The long mahogany table gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier. A centerpiece of fresh orchids sat in the middle, flanked by gleaming silverware and crystal glasses.

There were only two people seated.

My father, at the head of the table, sat like a statue carved from iron—hands folded, back straight, his expression unreadable. My mother was beside him, wine glass in hand, her posture impeccable, every detail of her appearance flawless.

And then there was me.

I moved to the empty seat across from my mother, beside the one clearly meant for Damian. I tried not to look at it too long.

“He’s not here yet?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

My father barely glanced up. “He’ll be joining us shortly. Sit.”

I did, carefully smoothing my dress as I lowered myself onto the chair.

The silence that followed wasn’t unfamiliar. Lancaster dinners were rarely filled with conversation unless it served a purpose. But tonight, the tension felt different. Sharper. Like everyone was waiting for the performance to begin.

My mother passed me the wine without a word.

I declined it with a small shake of my head.

As upset as I was at my parents for springing this on me, I could fall apart later—after the show. After I played the part. After I survived the longest dinner of my life.

It wasn’t like I had a choice.

This match had been decided long before I was ever asked to show up in silk and heels.

My future husband—God help me—would be here any minute.

I wiped my palm against the side of my dress, trying to steady the shaking. My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced my shoulders back, chin up, mask on.

Still, every second that passed only made it worse. The waiting. The wondering. The awful, gnawing dread in my chest.

I could feel my father watching me, though he said nothing. And my mother—she wouldn’t meet my eyes at all.

I was about to say something, anything, just to cut through the suffocating silence, when the double doors creaked open again.

And this time, the butler didn’t need to say his name.

Because I already knew.

Damien Moretti.

I stood,turned then forgot how to breathe.

There was no hesitation in his stride, no uncertainty in the way his gaze swept the space.

He wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense.

He was too sharp for that.

Too rough around the edges.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his black suit like a second skin — tailored to perfection, yet effortless. His dark hair was a little too long, pushed back like he’d been too busy to care. His skin carried the faint sun-kissed undertone of Mediterranean blood, his jaw dusted with the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow that made him look more dangerous than polished.

But it wasn’t his looks that made him striking.

It was the stillness.

That unnerving, controlled stillness like a predator waiting for someone to move first.

His eyes were the worst part.

Dark. Piercing. Detached. They weren’t curious or friendly. They didn’t twinkle or warm. They measured.

And when they landed on me…

I felt it.

That tight pull in my stomach. That visceral awareness that this man wasn’t just powerful.

He was used to power. Built from it. Unapologetic about it.

And while the rest of the world might have called him a mystery, in that moment, I didn’t see mystery.

I saw warning.