Married To My Enemy Alpha

Isabella

The sound of the gavel was all that echoes through my skull, it was like a gunshot.The voice of the judge filled the hall. "By the power vested in me," the judge paused, "you are now legally husband and wife." He pronounced.

Click.

Flash.

Another camera goes off. Another reminder that this moment-this marriage-isn't mine. Not really. I don't look at the man standing beside me. Damien Wolfe. Billionaire, the predator in tailored black, shadow in flesh. His silence weighs more than the judge's words.

He's dressed in black too, like we're at a funeral. Maybe we are. My sister Lena sniffles behind me. I don't turn around. I can't. If I see her broken face, I'll crumble too. And I can't afford to break-not here, not in front of him.

In my head, I whisper the truth I can't say out loud: I just signed my life to a monster to protect my family's corpse of a legacy. The courtroom empties. Reporters shout questions.

"Isabella, how does it feel to marry a Wolfe?" "Is this a love match or leverage?" I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. This isn't a wedding. It's a funeral with designer shoes and blood money.

The marble hallway outside gleams under the harsh lights. Damien walks ahead of me like he owns the ground itself. He doesn't look back. I trail behind him, silent, small, forgotten already.

Then I hear him.

"I want every trace of Isabella DeLuca erased," he says sharply into his phone. "Birth records. Inheritance. Public identity. Make it like she never existed."

I stop.

The air leaves my lungs. The walls feel like they're closing in. I press myself against the cool marble, hoping I'm just imagining it. But his voice is steady. Seriously. Cold.

He's not just marrying me. He's erasing me.

Every thread of my identity-my name, my bloodline, my future-is being snipped away, quietly, and permanently.

I feel the scream rising inside my chest. But I swallow it down. I can't scream. Not yet. Not while I'm still caged in this man's world. He doesn't know I'm behind him.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he wants me to hear.

We ride in silence.

The back seat of his car smells like leather, power, and something sharper underneath. I sit stiffly, hands folded in my lap. Damien doesn't speak. He types on his phone, his expression unreadable.

His hands are clean. Powerful. Controlled.

I wonder how many contracts they've signed. How many throats they've metaphorically-or literally-cut?

Outside, the city fades into cliffs and silence.

His estate rises like a myth from the mountain. Cold steel and ancient stone, carved into the edge of the world. A fortress, not a home. A prison with designer bones.

As I step out, the wind tangles in my hair. Then something hits me-a scent. Sweet. Haunting.

White lilies.

I turn, stunned. They bloom on the rooftop above the west wing-dozens of them. Delicate. Perfect. My mother's favorite. My favorite. A flower no one's mentioned in years. No one alive knows that detail. I never told anyone. Not even Adrian.

My throat tightens.

How does he know?

Did he guess? Investigate? Stalk?

Or does he know me better than I know myself?

A maid greets me with a bow. She doesn't speak, just gestures toward a towering hallway. I follow her, feet sinking into the silk-soft carpet, walls lined with art that watches me as I pass.

She leaves me at a set of double doors. My new room.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds too final. The room is huge. Beautiful. Hollow.

Grey velvet curtains hang like mourning veils. Chandeliers glitter with the cold shine of diamonds. Everything is immaculate.

Cold. Precise. Just like him. I walk toward the window. The view is terrifying-mountains, mist, a drop that could swallow me whole. My reflection in the glass looks like a stranger. Pale. Haunted. Married.

I turn-and something shifts in the corner of my vision.

A curtain. Half-drawn. Behind it, a shape. A canvas.

I step closer, my heels silent on the polished floor.

Pulling the curtain aside feels like tearing open a wound.

And there it is.

A painting of me. Not just any version-me, in the green silk dress I wore the night Adrian Moretti proposed. That night I swore I was in love. That night I thought I had a future.

But I never posed for this. My breath catches in between. My skin prickles. The painting's eyes-my eyes-seem to follow me. Like the canvas is alive.

Watching. Waiting.

Who painted this?

How did Damien get it?

Why does he have it? I take a step back. My knees were brushing the edge of the bed. I feel like I'm falling and standing still at the same time. This isn't protection. This isn't salvation.

This is an obsession that can't be restricted.

That night, I woke up gasping. The nightmare slips away like smoke escaping through the air, but the dread lingers with me. Leaving a weight on my chest. It was a shadow on my throat.

Something's wrong. The room is too quiet. Everything is different. I felt something was up yet I can't figure out what. I sit up, every of my nerve on fire.

The balcony doors are closed. The curtains dance slightly-though no wind stirs the air. I felt it then. It was a presence. Not in the room.

I feel like watching it. I throw off the covers, rush to the doors, and fling them open. Cold air lashes at me.

And there-on the rooftop opposite mine-he stands.

Damien.

Barefoot. Shirtless. His skin was pale under the moon. His amber eyes glowed faintly like a predator in the dark. He doesn't move. Don't blink. Just watch me.

And I know, with every breath, every heartbeat, every tremble in my soul-

This marriage isn't the beginning of safety.

It's the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Something I may not survive.