His Arranged Desire

Chapter One

Isabella POV

The glow of my bedside lamp spilled across the pages of the book in my lap, its soft light carving a small oasis in my otherwise suffocating world. Reading was the only place I could escape-the only time I wasn't Giovanni Romano's daughter, the pawn in his bloody empire.

The book was a dark romance about the two main character who was deeply in love with each other but couldn't be together because their families were at war.

The book piqued my interest when i heard that the male lead later died while sacrificing his love for her.

I have always liked knowing how books end before reading them so as to brace myself for any surprise.

I turned another page,deeply engrossed with the book, but the knock on my door broke the illusion. It was soft, hesitant. Only one person in this house knocked like that.

"Come in, Mama," I said, already setting my book aside.

My mother slipped inside, her silk robe trailing after her like a whisper. She always moved gently, like she was afraid of taking up too much space. Her dark hair was pinned back, but a loose strand curled against her cheek. Her eyes-warm, always warm-would have calmed me if not for the way they darted, nervous, toward the hallway.

"Your father..." She hesitated, pressing her lips together. "He's asking for you in his study."

The words made the air shift, heavy and charged. My chest tightened. Father never asked for me unless it meant something serious.

I rose from the bed, smoothing down my nightgown, though my pulse was already racing. "Do you know why?"

Her hands fluttered at her sides, then stilled. She was trying not to show it, but I caught the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. The same look she had when Father dismissed her at dinner, or when she tried to soften his words and he silenced her with a glare.

"I don't," she whispered, though the tension in her voice betrayed her. "But, Isabella..." She stepped closer, her hands gently cupping my face. "Remember what I told you. In this family, strength is survival. Don't let him see fear."

My throat tightened. She had told me this all my life, in a hundred little ways. That one day my path would be decided for me. That marriage would not be a choice, but a weapon. I had prepared for it in theory. Not in practice.

I forced a small smile, covering her hands with mine. "Don't worry, Mama. I'll be fine."

But the look in her eyes said otherwise. She smoothed my hair, kissed my forehead, and let me go-though I knew she wanted to hold on.

I straightened my spine as I left my room, walking down the long corridor toward my father's study. The closer I got, the colder the air seemed to grow.

By the time I reached the heavy double doors, I already knew.

Something was about to change

The double doors loomed before me like the gates to a prison. I hesitated only a second before pushing them open.

The study smelled of smoke and power. Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, paperwork scattering on yhe black desk. A decanter of amber liquid gleamed on the desk, beside a half-empty glass. My father sat behind it, his broad shoulders rigid, his eyes sharp as blades.

"Close the door," he said without looking at me.

I obeyed, the soft click echoing in the silence. He finally lifted his gaze, pinning me in place. My father's stare always carried weight, but tonight it was heavier, like he was already holding me in chains.

"Sit."

I sank into the chair across from him, spine straight, chin lifted. My mother's voice echoed in my mind: Don't let him see fear.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "You've grown into a fine woman, Isabella." His tone was flat, clinical, as if he were assessing an investment. "And now, it's time you served this family."

The knot in my stomach tightened. Here it comes.

"You'll be married."

My breath stilled. He had spoken of this before, vaguely, in the way men speak of storms that might come someday. But hearing the words spoken now-final, absolute-was like a blade sliding between my ribs.

"To who?" My voice was steady, though my heart hammered.

He leaned back, setting his glass on the desk with a sharp clink. "Adrian Moretti."

The name struck like thunder. Adrian Moretti. Don of the Moretti family. A man whispered about in fear, a man whose enemies never lived long enough to speak again.

My lips parted, but no sound came. Then, finally: "Why him?"

My father's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "Because he holds something this family needs. Power. Protection. An alliance that will silence our enemies before they grow too bold."

The words pressed down on me, crushing, but beneath the steel I caught a glimpse of something else: desperation. My father needed this marriage. Needed Adrian Moretti. That realization twisted my stomach further.

I shook my head, forcing words past the tightness in my throat. "I don't want this. You can't-"

His palm slammed down on the desk, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. "You don't get to want, Isabella. You don't get to choose. That's the curse of being born in this world. You're a Romano. And a Romano obeys."

I swallowed hard, fighting the burn in my eyes. "So I'm nothing to you but a piece of property? A bargaining chip?"

His expression didn't flicker. "You're my daughter. Which means you'll play your role, no matter how much you dislike it. You'll marry Adrian Moretti, and you'll do it with grace. Because if you fail-if you embarrass this family-blood will spill."

I stiffened, the implication clear. He wasn't just threatening Adrian's enemies. He was threatening me, my mother-anyone he needed to.

I rose from the chair, my legs stiff, my body trembling with a rage I dared not show. If I stayed another second in that room, I would scream.

My father's voice followed me as I reached for the door. "Remember, Isabella. You carry this family's honor. Do not forget who you are."

I slammed the door shut behind me, his words clinging like shackles around my throat.

The hallway stretched out before me, long and suffocating. My breaths came shallow and sharp as I forced one foot in front of the other, fighting the heat in my eyes.

I turned the corner and nearly collided with my mother. She must have been waiting, hovering in the shadows for me to emerge. Her face tightened the instant she saw me.

"What did he say?" she whispered.

I shook my head, pressing past her, but her gentle hand caught my arm. I froze, unable to look at her because if I did, I would break.

"Mama," I whispered, my voice raw. "He's... he's marrying me off. To Adrian Moretti."

Her breath caught, soft but sharp, like she'd been struck. For a moment, she didn't speak. Her fingers tightened on my arm before loosening again, as if she feared holding me too tightly would make me shatter.

"Oh, Isabella." She drew me into her arms, her embrace warm, fragile, and full of all the love my father had never shown. I let my forehead press against her shoulder, my body stiff but desperate for the comfort.

I wanted to scream that I hated him. That I would never go through with it. That I would run, disappear, burn this house to the ground before letting Adrian Moretti put a ring on my finger.

But I didn't. Because the truth weighed heavier than my defiance. My father had decided my fate. And no amount of screaming would undo it.

After a long silence, my mother's voice brushed against my hair, quiet but steady. "I warned you this day would come, my love. But I prayed it wouldn't come so soon."

I pulled back, searching her face. She looked at me not with pity, but with sorrow. She knew. She had lived it herself.

"Why him?" I asked, though the question wasn't really for her.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the study doors before returning to me. "Because your father needs him. And when men like your father need, it is the women who pay the price."

Her words sank deep, an ache settling in my chest.

I went to my room without another word, shutting the door behind me. The book I'd left open on my bed waited, but the words no longer held escape. Not tonight.

I crossed to the window, pressing my palms to the cool glass. The night stretched beyond the estate walls, dark and endless. Somewhere out there, Adrian Moretti lived, breathed, ruled. A man whispered about like a ghost, a shadow.

And now, he was mine.

No-I was his.

The realization coiled inside me like a trap snapping shut.

I didn't know him. I didn't want him. But already, Adrian Moretti owned me.

And there was no way out.

Anger flared in me, hot and helpless. But beneath it was something colder: dread. Because for the first time, I understood.

There would be no escaping this.