He Married Me to Punish My Father but the Secret Beneath My Wedding Dress Made Him Turn Against Everyone Who Had Hurt Me

The drive to the DeLuca estate in Lake Forest was conducted in absolute, heavy silence.

The snow was falling harder now, blanketing the dark highway in a thick layer of white. Inside the warm, leather-scented interior of the Maybach, Roman sat beside me, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the top button undone and his dark sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, muscular wrists and a simple dark watch.

I sat pressed against the passenger door, my heavy lace gown spread out around me like an ivory fortress. My shoulder was still throbbing with a dull, sickening ache where my father had pressed into the bruise, but the numbness that always accompanied my pain had taken over, wrapping my mind in a protective layer of fog.

When the car finally slowed down, turning off the main road and passing through a set of massive, towering iron gates, I looked out the window.

The DeLuca estate was not like my father’s flashy, hyper-modern Winnetka mansion.

It was an old, stone fortress built in the 1920s, surrounded by acres of dense, snow-covered pine trees. It looked stoic, gothic, and utterly impenetrable. High stone walls snaked around the perimeter, and I could see discrete security cameras and subtle light motion sensors mounted on the stone pillars.

The car came to a stop beneath the stone portico at the front entrance.

The driver hurried around to open my door. Roman stepped out first, extending his hand to help me maneuver the heavy, cumbersome layers of my wedding dress out of the vehicle.

I took his hand. His fingers were warm against my freezing skin.

As my feet touched the stone steps, a sudden gust of icy wind swept through the portico, blowing my heavy veil across my face and tangling it in my hair. I reached up nervously to brush it back, but my fingers were stiff from the cold.

Roman stepped closer. Without a word, his broad hands came up to my face.

I froze instinctively, my shoulders tensing, waiting for the harsh, heavy reprimand that usually followed any sign of clumsiness in my father’s presence.

Roman paused. He noticed the sudden, sharp tension in my posture, the way my eyes widened slightly in fear as his hands hovered near my face.

A strange, dark shadow crossed his features.

He didn't raise his hand. He didn't grab me.

With slow, surprisingly gentle movements, his long fingers carefully untangled the delicate lace of the veil from my dark hair, smoothing the fabric back over my shoulders. His knuckles lightly brushed against the side of my neck, his touch warm, brief, and incredibly light.

“Inside,” he said quietly, his voice low in the quiet night air.

We stepped into the main foyer. The interior of the house was warm, lit by soft golden wall sconces and a roaring fire burning in a massive stone fireplace across the great hall. High wood-paneled walls, dark Persian rugs, and classic oil paintings gave the space an atmosphere of quiet, ancient wealth and absolute security.

A middle-aged woman in a simple gray dress stepped forward from the hallway, bowing her head respectfully. “Good evening, Mr. DeLuca. Mrs. DeLuca. Welcome home.”

Mrs. DeLuca.

Hearing the title aloud sent a strange, surreal shiver down my spine.

“Thank you, Martha,” Roman replied. “Is everything prepared upstairs?”

“Yes, sir. The master suite has been arranged, and the fire has been lit.”

“Good. You may take the rest of the night off.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.” Martha turned and quietly vanished down the service hallway.

The quiet returned, heavy and absolute.

Roman turned to face me. He stood in the center of the grand foyer, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, his dark eyes assessing me with a heavy, intense scrutiny.

“This is where you live now,” Roman said, his voice echoing slightly against the high ceilings. “You have free run of the house, the gardens, and the library. But you do not leave the grounds without my explicit permission, and you do not contact your father.”

“What about my sister?” I asked immediately, my voice rising with urgent concern. “Can I speak to Olivia?”

Roman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You may call your sister. Once a day. But the call will be monitored.”

I let out a soft breath of relief. “Thank you.”

He frowned, clearly expecting me to fight his restrictions, to demand total freedom, or to throw a tantrum like the spoiled socialite he believed me to be. My immediate, quiet gratitude seemed to unnerve him.

“You’re very easy to please for a woman who just lost her freedom,” Roman noted, taking a step toward me.

“I didn't lose my freedom today, Roman,” I said softly, looking around the warm, quiet hall. “I just changed wardens.”

His brow furrowed deeply. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know how this works,” I said, lifting the heavy skirts of my gown so I could walk toward the grand staircase. “Which room is mine?”

Roman stood still for a moment, staring at me as if trying to decipher an obscure language written on my face. Then he gestured toward the top of the stairs.

“The master suite is at the end of the hall on the left,” he said. “We share a suite. My brother... Nicholas’s room was on the right wing. That wing is closed.”

I nodded slowly. “Understood.”

I began ascending the broad wooden staircase, my heavy lace dress whispering softly against the steps. Every movement sending a dull ache through my bruised shoulder, but I kept my posture straight, my head held high.

Roman followed a few paces behind me, his heavy footsteps quiet against the carpeted runner.

We reached the master suite. It was a massive, elegant room with a high tray ceiling, a king-sized bed dressed in dark charcoal linens, a seating area near a crackling fireplace, and a large set of French doors leading out to a private stone balcony overlooking the snow-covered pine forest.

A large, carved oak wardrobe sat against the far wall, and a door on the right led into a spacious, marble-tiled bathroom.

I stood in the center of the room, feeling small and terribly conspicuous in my massive ivory wedding gown.

Roman closed the heavy oak door behind us. The sharp click of the latch sounded terrifyingly final in the quiet room.

He walked over to the bar cart near the fireplace, poured himself two fingers of dark amber whiskey, and tossed it back in a single, smooth swallow. He set the glass down with a soft click.