---
Chapter 4 – A Kingdom Built on Ashes
The next morning in Rome dawned deceptively serene.
From the penthouse of the Seo Tower, Kairo stood shirtless near the full-length windows, a mug of black coffee in his hand, overlooking the still city below. The sky above was soft blue, yet the shadows inside him stirred relentlessly.
He hadn't slept much—not because of the call last night, not even because of Celeste's manipulative texts. It was her—Elira Wynne. The girl who arrived with no past and no fear. The girl who, with one quiet look, had clawed her way under his skin.
His phone buzzed again.
Celeste.
💬 Celeste: Good morning, amore. I missed you last night. Can we have dinner before my interview with Vogue tonight?
He didn't reply.
Another buzz.
💬 Celeste: I need a favor... The watch brand deal you promised? They're ghosting me.
He deleted the message without blinking. She'd spent years weaving herself into his world like ivy—beautiful, elegant, parasitic. Kairo had known, deep down, what she truly wanted. But until now, he hadn't cared. It was easier to let her act, easier to pretend.
Until Elira.
She wasn't asking for anything. She wasn't pretending to be perfect. She wasn't asking for a kingdom—yet somehow, she made him want to burn one down just to build another for her.
He took a long sip of coffee.
"Dio mio... I'm losing it."
---
Meanwhile, at the studio...
Elira arrived early, hoping to shake off the haunting echo of Kairo's voice from the night before. She hadn't told anyone about the overheard call. Who would believe her, anyway?
She walked into the costume room where Chiara, the assistant stylist, was pinning dresses to mannequins.
"Early bird," Chiara said cheerfully. "Nervous?"
Elira smiled faintly. "More like... focused."
"Right. Focused. Like a woman preparing for battle," Chiara teased. "Word of advice? Don't fall for the director. But if you have to fall for someone... maybe don't fall for him."
Elira blinked. "Him?"
Chiara pointed out the window where Kairo had just stepped out of his black Aston Martin. Dressed in an obsidian suit, sunglasses on, his presence turned heads—even the birds seemed to pause mid-flight.
"You mean Kairo?"
Chiara snorted. "Yes, the Kairo Seo. The man who buys dying companies like they're poker chips. The one whose ex-girlfriends all get signed to Versace a month after breakups and disappear to Bali for 'rehab'."
Elira swallowed. "Is he that dangerous?"
Chiara's eyes darkened. "Let's just say—no one says no to Kairo and leaves with everything they came in with."
---
Later, on set...
The scene they were shooting was intense. Elira's character had to break down, pleading with the mafia boss she was secretly in love with. A hard moment for any actress.
But Elira didn't need to act.
As soon as she looked into Kairo's eyes across the camera lens, the emotion welled up naturally. The danger. The thrill. The question that still haunted her:
Who was he, really?
She delivered the line:
> "You don't get to play God in my life, no matter how powerful you are!"
There was a long pause on set. The camera didn't cut. Kairo—directing now—stepped out from behind the monitor, his expression unreadable.
He approached her slowly, deliberately. Everyone watched.
"Elira."
Her name left his lips like a caress.
"You felt that line. That wasn't acting."
She stood her ground. "Maybe I didn't have to."
They stared at each other. Something flickered in his eyes. A challenge. A threat. A confession unsaid.
He leaned in, whispering low enough only she could hear, "Are you falling for me, piccola fiamma?"
Her heart skipped.
"No," she whispered. "You're just too used to people doing that."
His smirk returned, but his eyes didn't smile. "Liar."
Then he turned away, calling out to the crew, "That's a wrap for today. She's got the role locked."
The entire room buzzed with energy as crew members clapped and scattered.
Elira stood frozen, unsure if she'd just won a part in a film—or stepped into a dangerous game far bigger than she imagined.
---
The sun was setting by the time Elira left the studio. Golden light spilled over the cobblestone streets of Trastevere, softening the edges of the centuries-old architecture. Rome looked like a painting—but inside her, a storm was gathering.
Every scene she'd shot with Kairo today felt more like truth than fiction.
She wasn't sure if she was still acting.
Not when his gaze lingered too long.
Not when her skin remembered the burn of his proximity.
Not when her heart pounded at every dangerously smooth word he spoke.
She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and picked up her pace. Her apartment was only a few blocks away, tucked behind a quiet church square, but the shadows stretched long tonight. She didn't like the feeling that she was being watched.
As she reached her building, she paused.
The black Mercedes parked across the street wasn't familiar.
Her hand hovered over her keys.
Before she could move, a voice spoke behind her.
"You forgot your script."
She gasped, spinning around to find Kairo standing there, holding out a leather folder. Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
"I... I didn't realize," she said, trying to calm herself.
"You left it on set." He stepped closer. "You shouldn't walk home alone this late. Rome's not as innocent as it looks."
"You don't seem like someone who cares about safety," she said before she could stop herself.
He smiled—slow, dangerous. "That depends on who I'm protecting."
The folder remained between them like a wall. She took it, careful not to let their fingers touch.
"Thanks," she murmured, backing away toward the door.
"Goodnight, Elira."
But his voice held something more. A warning? A promise?
She nodded, fumbled with her keys, and slipped inside. Only when she reached her small apartment on the third floor and bolted the door behind her did she let herself breathe.
What was she getting into?
---
Later that night...
Elira sat cross-legged on her bed, the script open but unread in front of her. Her mind wouldn't stay still.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
> Unknown: You look beautiful in the moonlight.
She froze.
Her curtains were open—but she was on the third floor. Her breath caught in her throat.
Another message.
> Unknown: Don't worry. You're safe. For now.
She typed quickly:
> Elira: Who is this?
> Unknown: Someone who's interested in the same man you are.
Her fingers trembled.
> Elira: If this is a joke, it's not funny.
No reply.
She snapped the phone down and ran to the window, yanking the curtains shut. Her heartbeat was erratic. She felt exposed. Watched.
Kairo?
Was this some twisted test?
Or was there another player in this game?
She curled into her blanket, but sleep refused to come.
---
Elsewhere in the city…
In a smoke-filled underground lounge hidden beneath an abandoned opera house, a meeting was taking place.
Men in tailored suits. Women in shadows. Murmured voices over crystal glasses.
And at the center, a man with a scar that sliced across his jaw like a signature.
Lucien D'Angelo.
He tapped his fingers against the leather table.
"So, she's in," he said in Italian.
One of his men nodded. "She's close to him now. He cast her as the lead."
Lucien's smile was slow and cruel. "Good. Let her distract him. Keep him blinded."
"And if she starts asking questions?"
He downed his drink. "Then she won't live long enough to get answers."
---
The next day...
Elira arrived on set with dark circles under her eyes and a coffee clenched in her hand. She avoided Kairo's gaze, but it was no use. He noticed everything.
"You didn't sleep," he said during rehearsal.
She tried to brush him off. "I'm fine."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Was it me?"
Her eyes flicked up. "Excuse me?"
He studied her. "The texts. The tension. You think I'm behind it."
She said nothing.
"I'm not," he added, voice harder now. "But if someone is threatening you... I need to know."
She met his eyes, her voice trembling slightly. "Why? Because I'm your actress?"
His gaze darkened. "Because you're mine."
Time stopped between them.
He wasn't playing anymore.
---
END OF CHAPTER 4