Chapter 1
The Montclair estate was shrouded in silence, seemingly lifeless- as usual.
Arabella Montclair sat by the tall bay window of her room, sketchbook in hand, tracing the fine lines of a gown she’d imagined into existence. Moonlight spilled over the pages, casting silver shadows across her delicate fingers, making her dark ebony her shine.
A knock on the door startled her, out of her peaceful reverie.
“Miss Montclair,” came the low, careful voice of the family butler. “Your father requests your presence.”
Arabella didn’t need to be told twice. Giani Montclair never requested. He commanded. And Arabella had long since learned not to make him wait. Her heart sank; her father only summoned her directly when the matter was serious.
As she descended the grand staircase, every polished step echoed like a warning. She knocked timidly on the grandiose wooden door of her father’s office and entered.
Inside, she found her father seated at his desk, and before him, the broad back of a man. He was easily six feet tall, broad-shouldered, clearly muscular, exuding confidence with every inch of his stance.
At the sound of her quiet footsteps, her father looked up and the man turned. The moment Arabella’s eyes met his, all air seemed to vanish from her lungs. Those dark grey eyes... she would recognise them anywhere. Eyes that had haunted her daydreams and nightmares alike, eyes she had once lost herself in.
Alexandro De Salvatore. The last man she expected to see.
Time had only hardened his brutally handsome face. His presence still struck like lightning—sharp, cold, unmistakable. The boy who had once stolen her heart, only to shatter it, now stood before her as a man forged by blood and power.
“Arabella,” he said, voice smooth yet distant, eyes calculating, giving nothing away. His voice had gotten even deeper, more commanding over time.
Arabella’s fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress. “Alexandro,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral, betraying the storm brewing in her heart.
The room seemed to shrink around them. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, indifferent to the storm brewing between them.
“Daughter,” Giani Montclair said, his voice cutting through the tension, “The Vitellis are coming after us. The time has come for you to do your duty to the family. You are to marry Mr. De Salvatore. Within the next fifteen days—it is final.”
Arabella forced herself to meet his gaze, steadying her trembling hands. “I... I understand, Father, but... is it not too soon?” she asked softly. “And... our families have been rivals for generations.”
“It isfinal,” he repeated firmly, leaving no room for argument. “The sooner you accept it, the better. Now, I will leave you two alone... to get to know each other.”
The room fell silent. Only the ticking of the ancient wall clock dared to disturb the daunting stillness.
The tension was so thick it could be sliced with a knife.
Arabella’s mind raced. She had dreamed of silk, of gowns, of a future stitched with her own ambition. Now, that dream was tangled in a web of alliances, power, and a man who had once been her everything and now... nothing.
Alexandro broke the silence first, “You’ve grown. ”
“I’ve learned not to trust appearances,” she replied, her tone careful.
“You won’t even look me in the eyes, huh?,” Alexandro said, stepping closer, though the distance between them was measured and controlled. “Still regret your past actions? Good. You should.”
Her head shot up as she forced herself to meet his gaze, steadying her trembling hands. ”Regret?You are the one who should regretyouractions,” she said sharply, “The only thing i regret is ever trusting you.”
“Well, I hope you know, i don’t forget, especially not betrayal, and i intend to take revenge for ever ounce of it ” he said, as he stepped even closer to her, backing her into the wall. He was close enough that she was hit with the smell of his cologne, manly and woodsy, the same one from15 years ago. “I shall make this marriage your own custom hell,Rosa Spinosa"
Rosa Spinosa, thorny rose, he once used to call her justRosaItalian for rose. That is what hurt Arabella the most, the fact that he once called her his rose, a flower symbolising love but now he considered her thorny.
He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her face, as he gripped her chin roughly, “And yet,” she said softly, “I do not intend to make it easy.”
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Because in a house where every rose is dipped in crimson, even a seemingly delicate bloom has thorns sharp enough to draw blood.
