The Devils Bride Revenge Of The Mafia King

The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoed through the grandiose hallway, every step a reminder of the decision she had no choice but to make. Isabella Frost kept her chin high, her icy-blue eyes betraying no emotion as she approached the gilded doors at the end of the corridor. The weight of her father's desperate plea still clung to her like a heavy cloak.

"Save us, Isabella. You're the only one who can."

She had wanted to scream at him, demand why it had to be her. Why she was being offered as a sacrificial lamb to a man who thrived on fear and bloodshed. But instead, she had nodded, swallowing her resentment like poison, and donned the elegant black dress that now clung to her like armor.

The two guards stationed by the doors didn't bother asking her name. Her presence was expected. One of them opened the door without a word, and Isabella stepped into the lion's den.

The room was dimly lit, the glow from a crystal chandelier casting fractured light over the polished wood floors and antique furniture. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and danger.

And there he was.

Noah Bennett sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his dark eyes sharp as a predator's. He was every bit as intimidating as the rumors claimed-tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit that hinted at power and ruthlessness. His jet-black hair was combed back, exposing a chiseled jawline and lips that looked like they could whisper promises or deliver death sentences with equal ease.

He didn't rise to greet her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze roaming over her with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her skin prickle.

"So," Noah said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with something dangerous, "this is the Frost family's last desperate move."

Isabella's jaw tightened, but she refused to flinch. She crossed the room with measured grace and stopped a few feet from the table, meeting his gaze with a defiance she knew would amuse him.

"This isn't desperation," she said evenly. "It's strategy."

His lips curved into a cold smile. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?"

She hated the way his voice seemed to curl around her, as if testing her resolve. She forced herself to stand taller, refusing to let him see the crack in her armor.

"I'm here because you demanded it," she said. "Let's not pretend this is my choice."

Noah chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent a shiver down her spine. He set his glass down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Choices are a luxury in our world, Miss Frost. Surely you've learned that by now."

She bristled but said nothing. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.

Finally, Noah gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."

For a moment, she considered refusing, just to see how far she could push him. But the memory of her father's pale, desperate face was a sobering reminder of what was at stake. She lowered herself into the chair, keeping her posture rigid and her expression carefully neutral.

"I assume your father explained the terms of our arrangement," Noah said, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing business over coffee and not the fact that she was about to become his unwilling bride.

"He did," she said curtly.

"And you agreed."

"I didn't have much of a choice."