Married to the Monster They Said Was Dead Chapter 03

Married to the Monster They Said Was Dead Chapter 03

The wedding was exactly what Lucrezia wanted—fast, small, forgettable. A bought judge, two witnesses from the family’s legal team, and a bride who signed the certificate without a flicker of emotion.

Dante was wheeled in on a medical chair, dressed in a black suit arranged to hide how thin he’d grown. His eyes were open but unfocused—a flawless performance. I held his hand during the vows and felt his fingers curl, almost imperceptibly, around mine.

I’m here, the gesture said. I know what you’re doing.

Afterward, Lucrezia hosted a brief reception in the dining hall. I noticed how quickly she had the staff wheel Dante back upstairs—as if even twenty minutes downstairs was a risk she couldn’t tolerate.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Castellano.” She handed me a glass of wine. “I trust you’ll find the arrangement comfortable.”

I took the glass but didn’t drink. “I noticed Dante’s medication schedule hasn’t changed in four years. I’d like to consult his doctors.”

Her smile froze. “His medical team is the finest in the country. I selected them myself.”

“I’m sure. But as his wife, I’d like to understand his care.”

“You’re a surgeon, not a neurologist.”

“I’m a doctor,” I corrected, pleasant and immovable. “And now his legal next of kin. I have every right to review his records.”

The room dropped ten degrees. Lucrezia set her glass down with deliberate precision. “I’ll have the files sent up.”

She wouldn’t. We both knew it. But the request did its job—it told her this wife wasn’t going to sit quietly in a corner and wait for a man to die.

That night, after the compound went dark, I locked the bedroom door and began my real work.

I’d smuggled a portable diagnostic kit inside my suitcase. Carefully, I drew blood from Dante’s IV port and ran a rapid toxicology panel.

The results confirmed everything. Midazolam and Dexmedetomidine—sedatives at doses high enough to suppress all voluntary movement and speech while keeping his body alive. A man buried inside himself.

“Four years,” I murmured, looking at his still form. “They’ve kept you like this for four years.”

His eyes were closed now, but the tension in his jaw told me he was awake.

“I’m going to wean you off these slowly. Stop them too fast and the withdrawal could trigger seizures. Two weeks, maybe, before you can move and speak again.”

I paused, then added quietly, “It’s going to hurt. I need you to trust me.”

His finger twitched. Twice this time.

Yes.

I swapped his IV bag for a modified solution—identical in appearance, reduced sedative concentration. Ten percent less every two days. Slow enough to escape detection. Fast enough to matter.

As I worked, my phone buzzed. A text from my stepsister, Bianca.

“Heard you married the Castellano corpse. LMAO. Marco and I are having a REAL wedding. Thanks for stepping aside, sis. 💕”

Below it, a photo: Bianca and Marco at a rooftop restaurant, her hand on her belly, his arm around her, both grinning.

I stared at it for exactly three seconds. Then I deleted the message and blocked the number.

I turned back to Dante, adjusting his blanket with clinical precision. But my hand lingered a moment too long near his shoulder.

“Your stepmother is stealing your empire,” I said matter-of-factly. “My own family traded me like currency. I’d say we’re both overdue for some justice.”

The corner of his mouth moved. Not a twitch this time.

A smile.

Faint. Barely there. Unmistakable.

My heart did something I didn’t authorize. I ignored it, packed my kit, and climbed onto the cot across the room.

But just before sleep took me, I heard it—the softest sound in the dark. A voice cracked from four years of silence, dragging itself up from somewhere deep.

“Marchetti,” he rasped.

I sat bolt upright.

“You’re going to regret waking me up.”

Then nothing. Just the steady beep of machines and the slow, dangerous rhythm of a monster learning to breathe on his own again.