The basement smelled of damp wood, mold, and iron. The air was heavy, pressing down on Mia's chest with every shallow breath. Her wrists were raw from the ropes that bound her, skin rubbed open where the coarse fibers had dug too deep. She could still feel the sting of blood dried against her skin.
The faint memory of the song she'd hummed earlier clung to her like smoke — fragile, almost comforting, but dangerous. She didn't know why she'd sung it. Maybe to calm herself. Maybe to remind herself that she was still alive. But she knew now that it had been a mistake.
Because Luca had heard it.
Upstairs in his study, the sound of her voice had lingered like an itch he couldn't scratch. He had poured himself drink after drink, pacing the floor with his glass half-empty, his knuckles white around the stem. He hated that it echoed in his head. That broken, trembling melody had no place in his world, yet it clung to him.
He wanted it gone.
"Bring her to my room," he ordered finally, his voice cutting through the quiet. There was no hesitation, no room for discussion. The guards didn't question him. They never did.
Downstairs, Mia jolted when the shadows shifted. Two men stepped forward, their boots heavy against the stone floor. Without a word, one cut her ropes. Her arms dropped like dead weight, pins and needles prickling her skin. Before she could react, they dragged her upright.
Her legs nearly buckled under her, but they didn't care. Their grip was iron. She stumbled through the corridor, the silence so thick it made her heart pound louder in her ears.
When the guards pushed open a set of double doors, Mia froze. The room inside was too warm, too golden. Chandeliers flickered above, their light glinting off velvet curtains and polished wood. A place that belonged to someone powerful, someone untouchable.
The maids were already waiting.
They didn't speak. They didn't look her in the eyes. They just stripped the rags from her body with quick, practiced motions. Warm water washed over her, sharp against the bruises and cuts. She wanted to scream, to fight, but her voice caught in her throat.
Then came the dress — silk, soft and weightless. Too delicate for her. It clung against her skin like a cruel joke.
Her chest tightened. She couldn't stay here. She had to run.
The moment their backs were turned, she darted to the door. Her fingers closed around the handle. Freedom — it was right there.
But when the door swung open, Luca was standing in the doorway.
He filled the frame, tall and broad, his black shirt rolled at the sleeves, a glass still dangling from his hand. The smirk that curved his lips was slow, deliberate.
"Going somewhere?"
Mia stumbled back a step, her heart slamming against her ribs. The room seemed to shrink with him in it.
He didn't rush. He didn't raise his voice. He walked in like he owned not just the room, but the air she breathed. In three strides, he had her pinned against the wall. His arm blocked her escape, his shadow swallowed her whole.
"I asked you a question," he said, voice low, mocking.
Her lips trembled, but no words came.
He caught her chin, his grip forcing her to look at him. His eyes were sharp, the kind that stripped away lies before you could even speak them.
"What's your name?"
"M–my name?" Her voice cracked.
"I don't repeat myself." His tone was colder now, like steel.
"M–Mia." The name fell from her lips in a whisper.
Luca rolled it slowly off his tongue. "Mia." His smile twisted, dangerous. "I love when they tremble."
His hand trailed down her arm, slow, deliberate, to her waist. She tried to twist away, but his grip tightened. He leaned closer, studying every shiver, every ragged breath.
"You've never been touched, have you?"
Her silence was answer enough.
He tilted his head, voice dropping lower. "Are you a virgin?"
The word made her knees weaken. She clutched the silk fabric like it could shield her, nodding quickly, desperately.
The smirk on his face deepened. His lips brushed against her neck, warm and lingering before turning sharp — teeth grazing her skin, then biting. She gasped, the sound caught between pain and fear.
"Please…" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, spare me."
He chuckled against her skin, dark and humorless. "Already begging, and I've barely touched you."
Her stomach turned. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that she wasn't begging for what he thought, that she only wanted her life back. But the words stayed trapped.
Then, suddenly, he pulled back. His eyes narrowed, sharper than before. "How old are you?"
She froze. "Eighteen."
For the first time, something shifted in his gaze. A flicker — faint, but real. Guilt. Or maybe something he hated even more: hesitation.
He stepped back. The air between them snapped. The heat of his body was gone, replaced by a wall of distance.
"Bring her food," he said to the maids at the door. His voice was flat again, unreadable.
Mia stood frozen, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. The maids returned quickly with a silver tray. Steam curled up from the food — rice, soup, bread. Too neat, too elegant for a prisoner.
She eyed it warily, wondering if it was poisoned. But in that moment, hunger won. She ate in silence, each bite heavy in her mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Not just for the fear. Not just for the humiliation.
But for the terrifying realization that mercy — in Luca's world — was never free.