Isabella's trembling fingers brushed against the silken fabric laid out upon her bed—gold, glimmering, mercilessly beautiful. A dress like molten sunlight, a cruel reminder of all she had lost. Her chest tightened as her eyes lingered on it.
"Oh, Dante…" she whispered, voice breaking as tears rimmed her lashes. "If you had lived, this gold would have been yours—it mirrors your hair, radiant and untamed, catching every light of the heavens. But now… now it burns me instead. For in its shine, I no longer see you… I see him. Theodore. His eyes—predatory, golden, blazing with cruelty. Eyes that chained me, eyes that killed you. And yet I… I have no choice."
Her heart splintered as she stepped into the gown. It hugged her like a lover and a noose all at once, forcing her beauty into brilliance against her will. When she descended the staircase, her steps were ghostlike, her gown whispering with every breath. Theodore, lounging at the dining table, lifted his gaze. He did not look away. From her damp hair clinging to her temples, to the tremble in her wrists, down to the very hem that brushed the marble floor—he devoured her with his eyes, hungry, unblinking, as though she were his masterpiece and his prey.
But then her grandmother entered, her presence momentarily slicing the silence. Isabella's fragile illusion of safety shattered as she sat beside Theodore. The old woman's eyes glowed with both pride and longing.
"My child," her grandmother began softly, "how are you? How has marriage been to you, Isabella?"
The words pierced Isabella's chest like a blade. For just then, beneath the table, Theodore's hand slid, burning against the soft skin of her upper thigh. Isabella jolted—her breath caught. Her grandmother leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
"What is it, my dear? What troubles you?"
Isabella's lips quivered. She dared not tell. Her lashes fell heavy, shielding the tears in her eyes, and she murmured, "Nothing, Grandma… nothing at all."
Beneath, Theodore's hand did not relent. His thumb traced slow, cruel circles upon her trembling flesh, while his smirk curved in wicked satisfaction, drinking in her silent torment.
Then the old woman's voice rang again, firmer now. "I want to see children, Isabella. I want to be a great-grandmother before I leave this world. Your bloodline—your eyes, your fire—they belong to the Crimson Pack. Through your children, our legacy may rise again, our long-lost name reborn."
Isabella's fork slipped from her fingers. She coughed, choking on her food, her throat seared with both pain and shame. Across from her, Theodore's gaze locked onto hers—smoldering, triumphant. His smirk deepened, as though every word of her grandmother had been crafted solely for him. He leaned closer, the corner of his mouth curling into a whisper meant only for her heart to hear:
"You hear that, my golden bride? Even fate conspires to bind you to me."
And Isabella, broken in silence, felt her soul sink deeper into the chains of her golden prison.