Shattered Vows

The Price of Compliances

It had been days since Marco had come home to torture me, and for that, I was grateful. The silence in the house was a welcome reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere that usually surrounded me. I tried to savor the calm, knowing it was a fragile peace.

When Marco finally returned, the tension in the house became almost palpable. I looked up from the book I had been unable to focus on and saw him standing in the doorway, his expression cold and unreadable. Something more sinister lingered in his eyes.

"We have an important dinner tomorrow night," he said, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "You're coming with me. You're my wife, and you will be there by my side."

The word *wife* felt like a noose tightening around my throat. I struggled to keep my composure. "What should I wear?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my efforts to remain steady.

Marco stepped closer, his gaze intense. "Something that makes a good impression," he said sharply. "You'll dress like the wife of a powerful man. Nothing less."

I nodded, but Marco did not move. He remained, his presence overwhelming. He leaned in, his face inches from mine, and the scent of smoke and whiskey filled the air. "Listen to me, Isabella," he said in a menacing whisper. "You will act like nothing is wrong. You will smile, speak when spoken to, and keep your composure. If you so much as think about doing something foolish..."

The silence that followed was suffocating. I fought to keep my eyes locked on his, feeling a shiver of dread.

"If you make a wrong move," he continued, his voice cold and menacing, "I will ensure you find your father's dead body on our doorstep the next morning. Do you understand me?"

Terror gripped me, and I could only nod, unable to form words. His threat was clear and chilling.

Marco finally stepped back, his gaze still fixed on me. "Go to your room," he ordered. "You're going out to buy something appropriate for the dinner."

Confused, I started to protest, but Marco cut me off. He turned to the doorway and called, "Luca!"

Luca, one of Marco's enforcers, appeared almost immediately. Marco addressed him without taking his eyes off me. "Take Isabella out and make sure she gets something suitable to wear. It must be elegant but not too flashy."

Luca nodded, his face expressionless. "Understood."

"And take one of the maids with you," Marco added. "She'll help Isabella choose something appropriate."

The maid joined us promptly, her eyes downcast, reflecting the same sense of entrapment I felt. "Let's go," Luca said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I followed them out, my stomach knotting with anxiety. I wondered what the dinner was truly about and what role I was being forced to play in Marco's plans.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. I awoke with a start, my heart still racing from nightmares. The house was eerily quiet, and the absence of Marco's presence was a small comfort.

I moved through my morning routine, finding some solace in the familiarity. I dressed in comfortable clothes, mentally preparing for the day ahead. The task of shopping for a dress felt daunting but also oddly liberating—a brief distraction from the constant anxiety.