Page 35 of Made for Sinners

He tossed a white garment bag onto the table in front of me.

I stared at it. Then at him. Then back at it.

"You’re joking," I said flatly.

Dante arched a brow. "Do I look like I’m joking?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it, because no—he didn’t.

"You had this planned," I accused, standing so fast my chair scraped against the floor. "You knew I’d sign, and you had a dress ready. That’s psychotic, even for you."

He smirked. "I like to be prepared."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You’re insane."

"And you’re late," he countered, checking his watch. "Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes."

I gaped at him. "You expect me to just… put this on and waltz into a wedding like it’s a dentist appointment?"

"Yes."

I threw up my hands. "You can’t be serious!"

Dante stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between us. "You signed the contract, Emilia," he murmured, hisvoice deceptively soft. "That means you belong to me now. And I don’t like waiting."

A shiver ran down my spine, equal parts fury and something I refused to acknowledge.

I wanted to fight. I wanted to throw the dress in his face and tell him to go to hell. But the truth was, I’d already lost. The moment I signed that contract, I’d sealed my fate.

So, with a glare that could have melted steel, I grabbed the dress and stormed out of the room.

The ceremony wasover before I could fully process it.

One second, I was stepping into a sleek, black car, Dante’s presence looming beside me. The next, I was standing in front of a judge, muttering vows that felt more like a hostage negotiation than a declaration of love.

There were no flowers, no music, no guests. Just a few legal witnesses, a cold exchange of rings, and Dante’s hand firm against the small of my back as he murmured, "Say ‘I do,’ princess."

I said it.

And just like that, I was Emilia Conti.

The car ride back was silent.

I stared out the window, my stomach twisting into knots as the city blurred past. My hands clenched in my lap, the weight of the ring on my finger heavier than I expected.

Dante, of course, was perfectly at ease. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, like he hadn’t just dragged me into a marriage I never wanted.

When we pulled up to the building where his penthouse was located -his house—our house, apparently—I didn’t move.

"Out," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

I turned to him, my nails digging into my palms. "You’re actually taking me here?"

His brow furrowed. "Where else would you go?"

I let out a hollow laugh. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe my home?"

Dante’s expression darkened. "You don’t have a home anymore, Emilia."

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