Substitute Bride: Trapped Her In His World

Isabella bit her lip. No. She couldn't tell him the truth—that her uncle had forced her to take Alessia's place after her cousin refused to marry Benedict. She had never wanted this, but she'd been given no choice.

"Please, I— I swear..." she stammered, the words lost between sobs she couldn't control.

Benedict took a few steps back, a twisted smile never leaving his face. He looked at her with such raw contempt that Isabella felt herself shrink under his gaze.

He hadn't always been this way. But the accident that had killed his pregnant wife, Pamela, had carved out his heart, leaving behind a cruel, empty shell incapable of sympathy or love. Nothing touched him anymore.

"You'll never measure up to her."

Isabella didn't understand. Who was he talking about? Was he talking about her cousin? Or did he mean his late wife?

"I am a Murano," she insisted, her voice trembling. "I swear it. No one tried to deceive you. I'm a blood daughter of this family."

Isabella pushed herself up from the bed, struggling to face him. Her mind raced, scrambling for a solution, but she came up empty.

She didn't know what to do or say, but she couldn't be sent back to the Murano estate. If that happened, the fate awaiting her—and everyone else—would be terrible. Everyone knew the power of the Arrabal clan. To be rejected by its leader was to be cast out, a pariah for life.

"And you expect me to believe you?" he sneered. "A woman like you? What is your word worth? Your life is a pathetic joke. Someone with your past isn't fit to be the wife of the heir to one of the most powerful clans in the world."

Benedict walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder.

"When I return, I don't want to find you here. You had better disappear—you and every trace of your ridiculous existence. Or I will make you disappear. Permanently."

A desperate gasp tore from Isabella's throat. She couldn't catch her breath. She couldn't leave. He couldn't throw her out. Her entire family would suffer the consequences.

Her uncle's warning echoed in her mind. He'd been blunt: she could not afford to fail. Her family's company was bankrupt. If Benedict rejected her, they would lose everything.

She scrambled toward him and, in a final, desperate act, fell to her knees at his feet. He thought her proud, conceited? She had never been either. But if begging was what it took to survive, she would beg.

"Please, you can't throw me out," she pleaded, tears streaking down her face. "I know I'm not the bride you expected, but I can be a good wife. I can be whatever you need me to be. I'll do anything you ask. I'll stay out of your way. You won't even have to see me unless you command it. It's an arranged marriage anyway. Does it really matter which of us is the bride? You were forced into this, just like me. We don't have to despise each other. We just... we just have to get through it."

The deep scowl that settled on Benedict's face told her he hated what he was seeing.

Benedict was used to people begging for their lives, for second chances, but seeing her do it filled him with a unique disgust. She had no spine. Her groveling repulsed him. For a fleeting moment, he'd thought she might have enough dignity to walk away. Now he saw the truth: she would do anything for a taste of money and status.

With a sudden, violent movement, he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

Isabella's back slammed against the hard wood of the door. A sharp jolt of pain shot through her, jarring but bearable. She bit down hard on her lower lip, refusing to whimper.

Against her better judgment, she forced her gaze up to meet his—to meet those feral eyes that were tearing her apart. The blue eyes of the man who was now her husband bored into hers, searching for the lie, the angle, the self-interest in her words.

Benedict cornered her, his tall, massive frame completely dwarfing hers. His cologne, the sheer heat of his presence—it was all suffocating. The room seemed to tilt, and she thought she might pass out.

How could a man she'd met only ten minutes ago have this kind of effect on her?

Her strength evaporated. Her arms fell limp at her sides as his hand closed around her throat, applying pressure.

"What are you willing to do to stay?" he asked, his face so close to hers she could feel the heat of his skin. His whisky-laced breath made her head swim. "What can you offer me that another woman can't?"

"I'll... do... anything."

The words were a strangled whisper, forced past the tightening grip on her throat.

Benedict's fingers constricted further, just enough to steal her breath. Her face flushed a deep, suffocating red. The air grew thin. She fought for a breath that wouldn't come.

In the next second, he dragged her to the bed and shoved her down onto the mattress, bracing his weight above her.

"So, you're willing to do anything?" he purred.

Isabella could only manage a faint, terrified nod.

He continued, "Then you'll be my slave. You will do exactly as I say. You will be at my beck and call at all times. And you will refuse me nothing."

He traced a single finger over her lips.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the worst. But the weight above her vanished. A moment later, the door clicked shut, and her husband was gone.