Chapter 4 - Puppet Bride

Bella’s POV

I woke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. Rosa slipped in carrying a garment bag over one arm and a silver tray of cosmetics in the other.

The smell of fresh espresso and warm cornetti followed her, but my stomach still turned.

“Buongiorno, mija,” she whispered, eyes soft with pity. “Your father says you must be ready for breakfast. He sent these.”

She laid three dresses across my bed: blood-red silk, emerald satin, black lace. All tight. All expensive. All screaming trophy.

“Prepare?” I sat up, heart already racing. “Why, what’s going on?”

Rosa doesn’t meet my eyes. She laid the dresses on the bed, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “You’ll wear this red one. It brings out your eyes.” She said.

“Rosa,” I whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, busying herself with the dresses. “Just let me make you beautiful, dearest. At the end of the day… I still answer to your father.”

I wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She was scared for me.

So I let her.

I let her run the bath with rose oil. Let her wash my hair like I was a doll. Let her paint my lips the colour of fresh blood, line my eyes sharp enough to cut.

The red silk dress clung to every curve; the neckline hung low, the slit climbed high. Black stilettos that could double as weapons. Diamond studs in my ears that probably cost more than I could imagine.

When she was done, I didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror. I looked like the perfect puppet bride.

I felt like an animal headed to an auction.

Rosa kissed my forehead, her eyes glassy. “Be strong, my sweet.”

Then she left me at the top of the grand staircase.

I heard them before I saw them.

My father’s low, commanding tone.

My brother’s quieter voice, he spoke like he didn’t want to be a part of the conversation.

And a third voice, oily, amused, dripping with Naples accent.

I reached the dining room doorway and every hair on my body stood up.

Matteo Moretti rose from his chair like a snake uncoiling.

Thirty-two years old and dressed like money and violence had a baby: midnight-blue suit, no tie, his top was three buttons open to reveal a thick gold chain and the Virgin Mary tattooed over his heart.

More ink crawled up his throat — roses, daggers, a snake eating its own tail. His dark hair was slicked back, diamond stud flashing in one ear, Rolex the size of a fist. Rings on every finger. He smelled like wood and cigarettes and something chemical that made my nose burn.

“Good morning, Isabella,” my father said, not even looking at me. “Allow me to introduce Matteo Moretti. Matteo, my daughter.”

“So the Mendoza Princess returns.” He laughed.

Matteo’s black eyes dragged down my body…slow enough to feel like hands.

“So this is the woman I’m going to marry.” His voice was so smooth yet rocky. He stepped closer, lifted my chin with two fingers.

“Teeth.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Show me your teeth.” He repeated.

My father’s stare turned lethal. He looked at me like he would kill me if I didn’t listen.

I parted my lips. Slowly opened my mouth.

He tilted my head side to side, inspecting me like I was a horse at market.

“Hmm. Straight. Good.”

He circled me, one hand trailing across my shoulders, down the curve of my spine, stopping just above my ass. I felt him checking off his mental list — hips, waist, breasts, like he was already deciding how many sons I’d give him.

When he came back to face me, his thumb brushed my cheekbone.

“Bellissima,” he murmured, almost tender.

Then, louder, to my father — “She’s a virgin, you said?”

“Pure as the day she was born,” Alejandro replied, pride thick in his voice. “The pride of the Mendoza line.”

Matteo’s smile made my skin crawl. “Wonderful. Alejandro, a private word?”

My father nodded. “Rafael, please continue breakfast with your sister.”

The second the door closed behind them, I flew to my brother.

“Rafael—” My voice cracked. “You can’t let him do this. Please. You know what Matteo is. You’ve heard the stories—”

He caught my wrists, grip gentle but firm. “Bella, lower your voice.”

“I won’t marry that monster!” I hissed, tears burning. “He looked at me like I’m a puppet on sale! He’ll break me, Raf. He’ll—”

“Shh.” He pulled me into the hallway, away from listening ears. “I hate this too. But Dad’s in deep. Enemies are moving on half of our ports. If this alliance doesn’t happen, we lose everything. Maybe our lives.”

I stared at him, chest heaving. “So I’m the sacrifice?”

Rafael’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to find another way. Maybe talk him out of this or call Mom.”

“Call Mom? But Dad said Mom already knew about this.” I snapped.

“I find that hard to believe,” Rafael murmured. “Just… buy me time. Behave. Don’t give him a reason to hurt you early.”

Early?

The word made me want to throw up.

He cupped my face, eyes fierce. “One month until the wedding. I will fix this. Trust me.”

I wanted to believe him.

But the way Matteo had smiled at me—like he already owned every inch of my skin—told me time was something I didn’t have.

I nodded once, throat tight.

Rafael kissed my forehead and walked away.

I stood alone in the marble corridor, red dress clinging like blood I couldn’t wash off.”

“I can’t do this,” I whispered, the words cracking in my chest.

I turned and bolted up the staircase, down the hall, slamming my bedroom door shut behind me. My shaky hands fumbled with my phone.

I dialled my mother’s number, It rang once. Twice.

Then failed.

Over and over.

And that’s when the truth finally hit me — I was alone.

No mother.

No freedom.

No exit.

Just as my breathing started to spiral, I heard it.

“BELLA.”

Then a pause.

“BELLA.”

My father’s voice rolled through the walls like a storm.

I shot upright, wiping the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. The door flew open—hard, fast. But this time… he didn’t look angry.

He looked relieved.

“What is it, Dad?” I asked, sitting straighter. Something in my stomach twisted. “What do you want now?”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just had a discussion with Matteo. And we… came to a conclusion.”

My heart dropped.

“What conclusion?”

“He can’t wait one month,” my father said flatly. “You’re getting married in ten days.”