Married Her—But Used Me

I wasn’t supposed to be in that hallway.

In the Moretti mansion, there were corridors designed for silence—thick carpets, soft lighting, doors that closed with a breath instead of a sound. The kind of place where secrets didn’t echo because people paid good money to keep them swallowed.

I stopped outside Dante’s study because I heard my name.

“…Rina’s steady,” one of his men said. “She won’t make noise.”

Dante’s voice was low, clipped. “Steady isn’t the same as secure.”

Glass clinked. Someone laughed like this was all a game.

Another voice—Marco, I recognized him by his smug drawl—asked, “So it’s done? You and Celia?”

Silence. The kind that squeezes your lungs.

Then Dante exhaled like the question offended him. “Yeah. Signed it. Registered.”

My fingers went numb against the wall.

“Married,” Marco said, savoring the word. “Jesus. Boss, you moved fast.”

“She came back with a kid,” Dante replied. “You want me to let her drown? Her husband’s crew collapsed. The whole syndicate—gone in a month. She says she was forced. Says she married him because they threatened her. Because if she didn’t—” He paused, and his voice got colder, sharper. “—it would’ve put me in the ground.”

I closed my eyes.

Celia. The first love. The ghost that never left his shoulder.

“What’s the plan?” someone asked.

Dante’s answer came instantly. “I cover her. Quietly.”

“For how long?”

Dante didn’t hesitate. “Three years.”

I swallowed so hard it hurt.

“Three years,” Marco repeated, amused. “And Rina?”

A beat.

Dante’s voice went flat. “Rina stays comfortable. She stays out of the way. She keeps her mouth shut.”

A laugh. Not Dante’s.

“And if she doesn’t?” Marco teased.

Dante’s voice didn’t change. “Then she disappears.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

The door clicked—light slicing into the hallway. I stepped back into shadow behind a tall vase like I belonged there, like I was part of the décor. Dante walked out a second later, loosening his tie, looking like a man who had just discussed shipping routes instead of my life.

His eyes swept the corridor.

Right past me.

He walked away.

Like I wasn’t even worth seeing.

—

He came home late, smelling like whiskey and expensive smoke and the kind of confidence that made men careless.

“Rina,” he called, voice rough. “Coffee. Strong.”

I stood in the kitchen doorway, my hands steady because my body was choosing survival over collapse. “We’re out.”

He stared at me like I’d slapped him. “Then go get some.”

“It’s midnight.”

“So?”

My eyes met his. “No.”

For a second, the room felt too small for both of us. His mouth tightened; his gaze sharpened like he was deciding what kind of punishment fit.

Then he shrugged, dropped onto the couch, and kicked his shoes off like the world existed to catch him.

Minutes later, he fell asleep.

I watched him there—Dante Moretti, heir to a throne built on blood and gold, sprawled like a spoiled prince. The same bone structure. The same dark lashes.

The wrong soul behind the face.

I went to my room and locked the door.

Then I called my mother.

She answered on the first ring, voice soft with worry. “Rina?”

“I’m leaving,” I said.

Silence. Then: “What happened?”

My throat burned. “I thought… I thought he was like Adrian.”

My mother didn’t interrupt. She never did when I was breaking.

I forced the words out. “I was wrong. They have nothing in common.”

—

Morning came with violence.

My bedroom door slammed open, and Dante’s voice hit like a fist. “Rina Vale.”

I sat up slowly, hair falling into my eyes, my heartbeat calm in a way that scared me.

“You left me on the couch,” he said, like I’d committed a crime.

“You were asleep.”

“I don’t sleep on couches,” he snapped. “You take care of me.”

You take care of me.

Like I was hired staff. Like I was property.

He stepped closer, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight. “What’s this new attitude? You mad I didn’t bring you with me last night?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. He couldn’t hear truth unless it benefited him.

Dante’s phone buzzed. He checked it, swore under his breath, then looked at me with a strange, brisk neutrality.

“Celia’s coming,” he said. “I booked you a hotel. Pack.”