I Faked My Death, He Lost His Soul

My body went rigid. Slowly, I turned.

William Salvatore stood at the edge of our private booth.

He was dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit, his posture ramrod straight. His austere, controlled presence was a violent contrast to the chaotic sensuality of the club—a stark monolith in a riot of color. The very air around him seemed to still and chill.

Chloe choked on her drink, sobering instantly. She shot me a wide-eyed you’re-on-your-own look, snatched her purse, and vanished into the crowd.

Suddenly, it was just him and me.

And my offending hand, still resting against the companion’s face.

William’s eyes tracked to my hand. His gaze darkened, turning into something lethal.

He stepped forward in one fluid motion, his fingers closing like a steel manacle around my wrist. His icy stare shifted to the young man. “Out.”

That single word, delivered with the quiet weight of absolute authority, sent the companion and his friends scrambling. They disappeared like ghosts.

I yanked my wrist free, rubbing the red marks. “William! What the hell is your problem?”

“That is my question.” His voice was like ice shards. “Explain this.”

“I felt like being here. So I came.” My tone was deliberately careless, a challenge. “It’s none of your business.”

He studied me—my defiant posture, my smudged makeup, the reckless glint in my eyes. His jaw tightened.

Before I could react, he bent, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“William! Put me down! You bastard!”

I shrieked, pounding my fists against his back, my legs kicking uselessly. He didn’t even flinch. He carried me, ignoring the stunned stares, straight out of The Crucible and dumped me unceremoniously into the back of a waiting black armored Mercedes.

“Drive.”

“Yes, Don Salvatore.”

The car pulled away. I lunged for the door handle.

“Isabella.” His hand shot out, grabbing my arm and dragging me back into the leather seat. “Enough.”

He turned to face me, his expression carved from stone. “You are to be my wife. You were given the Family protocols. One states that a Salvatore woman is to remain at the compound after nightfall. Another expressly forbids unapproved venues like this. Were you not paying attention?”

“From now on, you do not set foot in such places. For tonight’s disobedience, you will submit a ten-thousand-word account of your actions and their consequences. A lesson in accountability.”

An account? Protocols?

I almost laughed, a hot, bitter surge rising in my chest. In my past life, those damn protocols had strangled me. I’d lived like a puppet.

Never again.

“I’m not writing your stupid account!” I shouted, the words tearing from my throat. “Your rules mean nothing to me! I’m not marrying you!”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence filled the car.

William turned his head slowly. His deep-set eyes locked onto me, churning with disbelief and something else, something complicated and dark.

He stared for a long, tense moment. “…Explain.”

Looking at him, my initial urge to blurt out the truth cooled. He hated this version of me—the wild, inconvenient fiancée. If I told him now that he was getting the perfect, obedient Seraphina instead, it would be letting him off too easy.

After the lifetime of repression I remembered, he deserved to suffer a little.

I took a breath, forced the storm of emotions down, and looked out the tinted window. “…Nothing. I’m just angry.”

William watched me for another few seconds. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction, but his voice held no compromise. “Sit properly.”

I looked at him, sitting with military precision, not a hair out of place. The symbol of everything that had crushed me. A fresh wave of resentment hit.

I wouldn’t.

I deliberately slumped against the seat, kicked off my heels, and pressed my bare feet into the plush carpet. I hit the window control, letting the night air rush in and tangle my hair.

I would be messy. I would be real.

This was me.

William watched my deliberate rebellion, his brow furrowing. But he said nothing.

The car stopped at the Caruso family gates.

I pushed the door open.

“Isabella.” His voice stopped me. Cold. Final. “The account. On my desk tomorrow.”

The car pulled away before I could reply.

I watched the taillights disappear into the night, and kicked a loose piece of cobblestone so hard it clattered into the darkness.