Chapter 3: The Price of a Princess

Chapter 3: The Price of a Princess

The world swam in a haze of fury and disbelief. The booming sound of her father’s voice accepting Dante’s proposal echoed in Elena’s ears, a death knell for the last vestiges of her freedom. The boardroom, with its suffocating air of cigar smoke and treachery, felt like a tomb. She had to get out.

Ignoring the triumphant gleam in her father's eyes and the venomous glare from Giselle, Elena turned and fled. She didn’t run. The daughter of Don Ricci did not run. She walked, each step a rigid, controlled movement, her spine straight as a steel rod, even as her entire world collapsed inward. She pushed through the heavy doors and moved past the lingering guests, their smiling faces and vapid chatter a grotesque parody of celebration. She needed air. She needed silence.

Her feet carried her automatically toward the grand French doors that led to the terraced gardens. She stepped out onto a secluded stone balcony, a small, forgotten space that overlooked the manicured darkness of the estate. The cool night air was a shock against her heated skin, a welcome sting that cut through the numbness. Leaning her hands on the cold marble balustrade, she stared out into the shadows, the distant, muffled pulse of the party’s orchestra a cruel reminder of the life that had just been stolen from her.

A single, silent tear finally escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. It was not a tear of sadness for Daniel, but one of rage for her own powerlessness. She was a chess piece, a valuable princess to be traded for a kingdom, and her own father was the one moving her across the board.

“It is done.”

Her father’s voice, hard and final, came from behind her. Elena didn’t turn. She kept her eyes fixed on the darkness.

“You can’t do this,” she said, her voice low and trembling with a fury she could no longer contain. “You can’t sell me to that… to him. Not after this.”

“Sell you?” Don Ricci scoffed, stepping up beside her. He smelled of expensive whiskey and victory. “I am giving you more power than you could have ever dreamed of. The Corrigans are small-time. The Davenports are the future. A marriage to the Underboss himself solidifies our family for a generation. Your sister Cosima secured the Boss. You will secure his right hand. This is an honor.”

Elena finally turned to face him, her eyes blazing. “Honor? He cornered you! He used my humiliation to his advantage, and you simply handed me over like a prize heifer at auction!”

Her father’s face hardened, his expression turning to stone. “Your humiliation is an inconvenience. Your pain is irrelevant. What matters is the family. What matters is power. You were raised for this, Elena. For your duty.” He looked down at her, his eyes cold and empty of any fatherly affection. “Dante Davenport wants you. He will have you. You will do your duty and you will be grateful for it. Now, fix your face. Your new fiancé will be expecting you.”

He turned and left her there, his words hanging in the chilled air like shards of glass. The last flicker of hope that her father might see her, his daughter, and not just his asset, died a swift and brutal death. She was utterly alone. Betrayed by her lover, her sister, and now, irrevocably, by her own father.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the doorway. Elena’s head snapped up, her heart lurching into a frantic, panicked rhythm.

Dante Davenport stepped into the moonlight, his presence instantly consuming the space. He moved with a liquid silence that was unnerving, his dark suit making him a part of the night. He had been there the whole time, listening.

“My condolences on your recent bereavement,” he said, his voice a silken mockery. He stopped several feet away, watching her with that intense, predatory gaze that saw far too much.

“You,” she spat, the single word dripping with venom. The Ice Princess was gone, replaced by a she-wolf, cornered and baring her teeth. “You orchestrated this. You stood there and watched my life fall apart and then you swooped in like a vulture.”

“Vultures feed on the dead,” Dante corrected, his lips twitching in a ghost of a smile. “I prefer my acquisitions with a little more life in them.”

“I am not an acquisition!” she snarled, taking a step toward him, fueled by pure adrenaline and rage. “I will not marry you. I refuse to be a pawn in your disgusting games.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all, simply absorbing her fury as if it were a mild breeze. “You mistake your position, principessa. You are not refusing. Your father has already accepted the terms. The deal is made.”

“My father is a monster, and so are you!”

“We are businessmen,” he countered, his voice dangerously soft. “And I am an opportunist. I saw a deal fall through due to faulty goods, and I made a superior offer. It’s that simple.”

The cold, commercial nature of his words, the way he reduced her, Giselle, all of it, to a mere transaction, made her see red. “You got lucky,” she seethed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You just happened to be in the right place at the right time to witness my ruin and claim the spoils.”

Dante took a slow, deliberate step closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The faint, clean scent of his cologne, of wealth and power, enveloped her. “Luck?” he murmured, a low, humorless chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Oh, Elena. Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The calculated look in his eyes from the hallway, the way he had been waiting… it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity.

“Your fiancé and your sister have been meeting every Tuesday afternoon for the past six weeks,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Suite 412 at The Carlyle. Very discreet. He told you he was in late meetings with his investors.” He paused, letting the information sink in, a poison seeping into her veins. “I knew the foundation of your engagement was rotten to the core. I was merely waiting for the right moment for it to collapse.”

Elena stared at him, speechless, the blood draining from her face. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity. It was a premeditated strike. He hadn’t just stumbled upon her weakness; he had cultivated it, watched it fester, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“I was waiting for the moment of maximum impact,” he continued, his grey eyes pinning her in place, cold and triumphant. “The moment you would be shamed, abandoned, and utterly alone. The moment you would be… available. With no other options.”

The full, horrifying scope of his manipulation crashed down on her. He had known. He had watched her play the part of the happy fiancée, knowing the entire charade was a lie. He had waited for her to be at her most broken, her most vulnerable, before making his claim. She wasn’t a prize he had won. She was a territory he had strategically conquered.

He raised a hand, and for a heart-stopping second, she thought he would touch her. Instead, his thumb gently brushed away the single tear track on her cheek, his touch shockingly gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality of his confession.

“The price of a princess,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips, “is knowing when she is about to fall, and being the only one there to catch her.”

He then stepped back, leaving her cold and reeling on the balcony. He gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of ownership, before turning and melting back into the shadows of the house, leaving her alone with the chilling truth. She wasn't just in a gilded cage. She was in a cage built specifically for her, by the man who now held the key.