The night after Luciano left her room, Aria couldn't sleep.
Not because she was afraid.
But because for the first time in days, she wasn't sure who she was more afraid of—him… or herself.
She lay there with the sheets twisted around her legs, her pulse still racing from the weight of his stare, the feel of his fingers brushing her skin, the quiet threat in his voice when he said:
"Before I forget how to be gentle."
What did that even mean?
Gentle wasn't a word that should've existed in his world. And yet… there was something different in the way he looked at her. Like she was the one part of his life that hadn't already been burned or broken. Not yet.
But fire doesn't ask permission to consume.
And he—Luciano Moretti—was made of wildfire.
—
The next morning, Aria didn't wait for breakfast to be brought to her.
She needed air.
Not just the physical kind, but something that felt like control. Like choice.
She slipped into jeans and an oversized cream sweater, pulled her hair into a messy braid, and padded down the grand staircase as silently as she could. If the guards saw her, they said nothing—just gave that subtle nod that always felt more like surveillance than courtesy.
She headed for the garden.
Where it was quieter. Looser. Almost free.
The hedges were high, the air smelled like rosemary and rain, and the fountains whispered secrets older than the house itself. Aria sat on the stone bench under the ivy-covered arch and tried to remember who she was before all this.
Before the cage of silk.
Before the man who watched her like she was a secret he wasn't ready to tell.
She didn't know how long she sat there before someone spoke.
"You don't belong here."
The voice wasn't Luciano's.
It was female. Cold. Crisp.
Aria looked up to find a woman standing a few feet away, dressed in black tailored pants and red lipstick like blood on porcelain. Her hair was sleek, pulled back with brutal perfection.
"I didn't realize this was reserved," Aria replied calmly.
The woman smiled. But it wasn't friendly.
"Oh, sweet girl. This whole house is reserved. For those who understand what it means to survive it."
Aria stood slowly. "And you are?"
"I'm Isabella. Luciano's business partner. Sometimes more. Depends on the season."
That last part landed like a slap. Meant to.
Aria didn't flinch. But inside, something twisted.
Isabella took a slow step forward, eyes scanning her like prey. "He has a habit of collecting strays. But don't confuse obsession with affection. He doesn't save people. He uses them."
"I'm not looking to be saved."
"Good," Isabella said, voice like ice cracking. "Then you won't mind being broken."
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving a trail of tension behind her like expensive perfume.
—
Later that afternoon, Aria was in the library again, trying to read, trying not to think about the woman with eyes like knives.
But of course, he found her.
Luciano always did.
He stepped into the room like he owned the silence. Which he did.
"Isabella said you two had a conversation," he said without greeting.
Aria didn't look up. "If you mean she threatened me with designer heels and a cryptic warning, then yes. Lovely chat."
His lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "She likes to remind everyone that she was here first."
"Was she?"
"She was nothing," he said flatly. "We used each other. That's all."
Aria turned to face him. "And what are you using me for?"
Luciano stepped closer.
Too close.
She could smell the sharp edge of his cologne, something dark and expensive.
"I haven't decided yet," he said.
She stared at him, throat tight. "Then maybe I'll decide for you."
That surprised him.
For a moment, his mask slipped. Just a flicker.
But it was enough.
He stepped back, just slightly, like he didn't trust himself not to reach for her.
"You're not ready to play that game," he warned.
"And you're not ready for someone who doesn't play by your rules," she whispered.
They stared at each other.
A storm between two bodies.
Then he did something unexpected.
He laughed.
Soft. Low. Dangerous.
And walked out without another word.
—
That night, Aria locked her door.
Not because she feared him.
But because she didn't trust herself to open it if he came knocking again.
She sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and typed for hours.
Not a blog post. Not a journal.
Just raw words. Unfiltered pain. The kind of writing that made her hands shake and her heart steady at the same time.
And somewhere between midnight and morning, she realized something.
She wasn't waiting to be rescued anymore.
She wasn't some delicate thing trapped in a castle.
She was changing.
Becoming steel wrapped in silk.
And if Luciano Moretti thought he'd broken her?
He hadn't seen anything yet.