Chapter Seven

The words hang in the air, heavy, almost absurd in their audacity. Marry him? Be Isabella’s mother? Step fully into Damien Moretti’s world? My pulse accelerates, not from excitement, but from calculation. Every instinct in me tells me to hesitate, to analyze, to measure the risks.

I might have grown up amongst riches, but Damien was a different kind of rich. The rich that involved blood.

I take a step back, forcing my voice to steady. “You can’t seriously expect me to just… agree.” My fingers flex at my sides, twisting the hem of my dress.

Damien doesn’t flinch. His gaze is calm, intense, like he’s reading my mind even as I try to hide it. “I’m not asking for an answer now,” he says evenly. “I want you to think about what’s at stake. For her. What you stand to gain, Leina Ashford.”

The shock I feel must show on my face, because he chuckles. “It's all over the news. New York Times aired it for a week. Every soul in New York has seen the video and knows the scandal.”

“And you want such a woman to raise your daughter?” I ask, getting suspicious.

He nods. “I don't believe you cheated on Marcus, ” is all he says.

I let my thoughts spiral, each possibility sharper than a blade. A life tied to Damien Moretti, wealth, power, influence… danger.

And Isabella, the child I’ve just begun to understand. She trusts me. She needs me. And if I play this wrong, Irina will destroy every small fragment of joy I’ve given her.

My chest tightens. I remember the stiffness in Isabella’s shoulders this morning, her eyes wide with fear, waiting for her father to punish her. I remember the dull, colorless schedule pinned to her wall. I feel a flash of anger, at Irina, at Damien, at a world that measures children in precision and obedience rather than laughter and discovery.

I take a slow breath, letting the memory of the garden flood me.

Isabella giggling, sprinting barefoot on the grass, dragons and castles sprawled across paper. The small rebellions, the joy I coaxed out of her. This is leverage, but it’s also genuine. I am not her mother yet, but I could be the one to shape her childhood, to protect her from the poison of control.

Damien’s voice pulls me back. “Leina, look at me” he says quietly, deliberate. I reluctantly raise my head and meet his gaze. “Look at me. Forget the contract, the status, the expectations. Look at her. Look at the little girl in my life. She has no mother. She deserves more than a schedule. She deserves someone to fight for her. If you agree to this contract, you get everything you can ask for.”

“Including your help with my revenge?”

He nods, eyes holding a silent promise.

I feel my pulse steady. My decision doesn’t have to be purely about love or sentiment. It can be strategic. It can be real.

“Yes,” I say slowly, testing the word. My throat is tight. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry you. For Isabella. For her childhood, and for my revenge.”

Damien’s eyes flicker, the faintest hint of surprise, before he recovers his calm. He steps forward, retrieving the marriage contract from the desk. “Then it’s settled. You will be her mother, Leina. And with that title comes everything I can offer you.”

I glance at the document, aware of the permanence it signifies. This is a key, a foothold a shield. I can protect Isabella, and in turn, I can shield myself and position myself for what I came here to do.

He hands me the pen, and I grip it deliberately, signing with precision, each stroke a statement: I am entering this life on my own terms.

Damien closes the contract with a soft snap, the weight of finality settling between us. “The wedding will happen in two days.”

And just as he said, two days later we are preparing to get married.

Sunlight filters gently through the curtains of the small chapel on the Moretti estate. It’s a rare calm, a deliberate simplicity. No sprawling guest lists, no media, no endless scrutiny. Just Irina, his guards, and my friends; Rosa, Sofia and Vincent.

Yes, Vincent Vitali. We've established some some of platonic relationship in the few weeks I've worked at the club.

I stand before the mirror in my room, smoothing the fabric of the simple white dress. No lace, no train, nothing extravagant. This wedding is not about spectacle.

I finally recognize myself in the mirror. I look like me from New York. Poised and elegant.

Rosa bursts into the room first, practically vibrating with excitement. “Leina! You look… perfect. Absolutely perfect.” She claps me on the shoulder, oblivious to the tremor of nerves in my chest.

Sofia follows, calm as ever, her eyes soft but assessing. “You’ve got this. Just… remember why you’re doing this.”

I give a tight smile, and it isn’t an easy one. They don’t know the full weight of my plan, how intertwined revenge, protection, and survival have become, but they know enough to support me.

I've told them enough for them to understand.

Vincent arrives last, dark eyes sharp, always measuring. “You’re sure about this?” he asks quietly, the tone more caution than doubt.

I nod. “I am. It’s not just for me. It’s for Isabella. And it'll help me get my revenge.”

Natalie is going to kill when she finds out about this. I'm supposed to look after you in Mexico.” He says folding his arms.

The chapel is small, airy, and almost too quiet. The wooden pews are polished to a soft glow, and the scent of fresh flowers drifts in. Rosa and Sofia are seated up front, their smiling faces an anchor against the storm brewing inside me.

Vincent, who opted to walk me down the aisle stretches out his hand to me. “Ready?” he asks quietly, voice low.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The aisle stretches before me, and I walk slowly, each step deliberate. I focus on Isabella, who stands at the front near Damien, small hands gripping her father’s arm. Her eyes find mine, wide, unfiltered, filled with trust. She’s already smiling, and for a heartbeat, the chaos, the scheming, the revenge, all of it, feels distant, irrelevant.

I still remember the joy in her eyes when her father told her we were getting married and thet I'll be her mother from henceforth.

Damien watches me approach, the corners of his mouth lifting in a near imperceptible smile. The air between us is thick, charged, as if every word, every glance, carries weight.

We exchange vows, short, private, meaningful. No florid promises of eternity, just truths: for Isabella, for each other, for the fragile equilibrium of control and care we are stepping into.

I speak last, words carefully measured. “I promise to be here for Isabella, to protect her, to guide her… and to stand by your side.”

Damien’s hand finds mine, strong, grounding. “And I promise to trust you, to honor your place in her life, and to let you be her mother in every way that matters.”

The officiant, an older woman, warm, with a voice that carries quiet authority, smiles at us. “Then, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

We exchange rings, small bands of gold, subtle but symbolic.

When Damien leans forward to kiss me, I don’t flinch, but I don’t melt either. My lips meet his, soft and deliberate. A careful balance of affection and strategy. I am not surrendering myself; I am asserting myself.

Afterward, we walk out of the chapel together. Isabella runs ahead, laughter spilling like sunlight over the grounds. Rosa and Sofia cheer, Vincent follows with a knowing grin. I let myself smile fully, letting the rare, quiet joy wash over me.

And yet, even as the celebration remains intimate, a small part of my mind spins with calculation. Irina will notice. The Moretti world will stir. But for today, I have gained a foothold. For today, I have secured my place in this world, in Isabella’s life, and in Damien’s orbit.

Today, I am Leina, wife, mother, strategist. And the next moves, carefully plotted, wait patiently in the shadows.

~~~

Sunlight slips through the blinds, soft and golden, painting stripes across the floor. I sit up and find Damien's side of the bed empty.

I take a bath and put on some clothes before heading downstairs.

I decide to make breakfast for Isabella: pancakes with fresh fruit, a drizzle of honey, and a little whipped cream. The scent of oranges and cinnamon soon fills the kitchen, and I feel a small spark of satisfaction.

When Isabella finally wakes, she pads into the kitchen in her pajamas, hair sticking up in little tufts. Her sleepy eyes light up when she sees the food. “Mommy,” she murmurs, “did you make breakfast?”

“Yes, sweetie,” I say, ruffling her hair gently. My heart warms at the fact that she was quick to accept me as her mother. “Today, we have a special morning. You’re going to help me with something.”

Her brow furrows. “Help you with what?”

I take a deep breath, letting the warmth of the morning settle me. “Your room,” I say simply. “It’s too strict, too perfect. You deserve a space that feels like a real child’s room. A place where you can play, imagine, and be yourself.”

She tilts her head, uncertainty flickering in her expression. “Irina… she…”

“Don’t worry about her,” I say softly. “I'm your mother now, and that means I get to decide how you spend your time.”

She nods slowly, trusting me.

After breakfast, we gather supplies: colorful pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, paints, and a few toys I had found in the storage room. My heart beats faster as I imagine Isabella’s room transformed.

We start by moving her study desk to one corner, leaving a wide open space for play. I drape a bright canopy over the small bed, creating a nook for reading and daydreaming. Isabella arranges her stuffed animals, naming them and lining them up as though she’s giving them new life.

“You can paint here,” I tell her, pointing to a wall I’ve covered with butcher paper. “Draw anything you want, dragons, castles, princesses, whatever you imagine.”

Her eyes widen, and a small smile spreads across her face. “Really? I can do that?”

“Yes, really,” I say, crouching beside her. “This room is yours. You can make it whatever you want. It’s your space to dream, to laugh, to be a child.”

She giggles, the sound light and free, and my chest tightens. I realize how starved she’s been for this, space to exist without rules, without pressure, without the looming shadow of perfection.

We spend hours rearranging, painting, and decorating. Every brushstroke, every placement of a toy feels like an act of rebellion against the suffocating routine she’s been forced to live. I catch glimpses of her confidence growing in little ways: the way she directs me where to put things, the pride she takes in her choices, the laughter that bubbles up unrestrained.

By the time we finish, her room is transformed: bright, whimsical, alive. The plain walls transformed to a vibrant pink. She flops onto the bed, sprawled among pillows and stuffed animals. “Mommy, it’s perfect. Thank you,” she whispers, voice filled with awe.

I kneel beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No, thank you,” I say softly. “For letting me help you. For being brave enough to imagine something different.”

She hugs me tightly, and I hold her, realizing in that moment that I am no longer just a visitor in this house. I am shaping the life of the little girl I’ve come to care for, and maybe, in the process, healing some part of myself.

The part that didn't get to have motherly love.

The quiet is broken by the soft click of the front door. I know Damien is back. My chest tightens. I wonder what he will think of the changes we’ve made, if he’ll see the joy in her eyes or only the disruption to his meticulously ordered world.

I release Isabella from my arms, giving her one last reassuring smile. “Go wash your hands, sweetie. We’ll wait for him in here.”

As she scurries off, I step back and look at the room. It’s chaotic, colorful, and alive, everything a child’s room should be. And for the first time, I feel a spark of victory, however small, in this house that has been ruled by control for so long.

The door clicks open and Damien steps in, Irina by his side.

Her face twists in disgust as she takes in the changes we made. “What is this? What happened here?”

“I decided to change my daughter's room. That's what happened.” I tell her, voice soft yet firm.

As if on cue, Isabella steps out of the bathroom drying her hands. She stands close to me, clutching my dress.

“Isabella, did you take your piano lessons today?* Irina asks, and Isabella presses herself further into me. I hate the fact that she's made the girl so scared.

“No,” I say picking her up. “I decided she's not going to have piano lessons today.” I don't give Irina a chance to respond as I walk towards the door. I pause and turn to Damien, “ Oh, and Damien, she won't be needing a home tutor anymore. The lessons she learns in school are enough for her.”

With that I walk out of the room.