The drive from the city blurred into darkness, and Aria's reflection stared back at her in the tinted glass, pale and hollow-eyed. She barely registered the blur of streetlights or the stretches of empty countryside—they had driven for what felt like hours, her sense of time unraveling with each mile. No one spoke. The suited men sat like statues, hands folded, eyes straight ahead. Only Lorenzo was alive in the silence, his presence burning beside her like an open flame. He hadn't spoken since his chilling decree—you'll wear my name by morning—but she could feel him watching her, weighing her every movement, every twitch of defiance in her shoulders. She refused to meet his gaze. She stared out at the dark horizon instead, clinging to the stubborn thought that as long as she kept looking outward, she hadn't surrendered.
When the car finally slowed, her stomach tightened. The road curved, flanked by gates taller than any she'd ever seen, black iron twisted into the shape of flames rising skyward. Cameras tracked the vehicle as it rolled through, and the gates opened without hesitation, as though the world itself bent to Lorenzo's will. Beyond the entrance, a long stretch of stone driveway wound through manicured gardens that glowed under floodlights, fountains spraying silver arcs into the night.
And then she saw it.
The mansion rose like something from a storybook—but not one filled with princesses and happily-ever-afters. No, this was the kind of palace where monsters lived. Towers of white stone gleamed under moonlight, windows arched like cathedral glass, and a balcony ran the length of the second floor. It was beautiful, yes—but the beauty was sharp, cold, designed to intimidate as much as impress. Guards lingered on the steps, their hands tucked into jackets that bulged with hidden weapons, their gazes impassive as the car rolled to a halt at the base of the grand staircase.
The door opened, and the night air swept in, heavy with roses and gunpowder.
"Out," one of the men ordered.
Aria hesitated, her body refusing to obey, but then Lorenzo's voice cut through the night—low, commanding, final.
"Move."
The single word carried more weight than the guard's barked order. Her body trembled, but her pride stiffened her spine. Slowly, she stepped out, her shoes clicking against the polished stone. She tilted her chin upward, refusing to let them see her shrink beneath the mansion's shadow, even as dread curled around her lungs.
Lorenzo emerged behind her, adjusting his cufflinks as if this were nothing more than a casual arrival home. He didn't so much as glance at her as he passed, striding up the stairs with the unhurried confidence of a king returning to his throne. She followed only because the guards behind her gave her no choice, their presence pressing like walls at her back.
Inside, the air was thick with wealth. A chandelier dripped crystal and gold from the ceiling, casting fractured light across marble floors veined with silver. Art lined the walls—dark portraits of men whose eyes seemed to follow her, and sculptures carved from stone that probably cost more than her entire education. But beneath the shine lingered something darker, a weight that pressed against her chest. This wasn't a home. It was a fortress. A kingdom built on blood.
Aria's gaze darted from the staircase to the long hallway, searching desperately for an exit, but there were none. Guards stood at every archway, servants bowed their heads as Lorenzo passed, and the walls themselves seemed to close in.
"This way," Lorenzo said without looking at her, his voice smooth but threaded with steel.
She followed, her pulse hammering, until they reached a set of carved double doors at the end of the hall. They swung open to reveal a vast room lined with heavy curtains and leather chairs. And waiting inside—men.
Older men, their hair silver or thinning, their suits immaculate, their rings gleaming with power. They rose when Lorenzo entered, their faces breaking into thin smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
"Lorenzo," one of them greeted, his accent thick, his tone oily. "We wondered when you would bring her."
Aria froze in the doorway, her heart lurching. Bring her? These men had been expecting her.
Lorenzo finally turned, his gaze slicing into hers. "Step forward."
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To plant her feet and say no. But the weight of a dozen eyes pressed against her, and her knees carried her forward before she realized she'd moved.
The men studied her the way merchants studied merchandise. One even nodded approvingly. "Pretty," he murmured.
Aria's skin crawled, heat rising in her chest. "I'm not—"
"Quiet," Lorenzo said, not raising his voice, not even looking at her. The command was effortless, unshakable. And what horrified her most wasn't that he'd said it, but that her mouth snapped shut on instinct.
He took his place at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed but radiating authority. "Gentlemen, you know why we are here. My father's debt was unpaid. The Morettis thought they could run. Tonight, the balance is corrected."
Her stomach turned. Corrected. That was the word they used for this?
"She will wear my name," Lorenzo continued, his voice calm, cold, final. "And by tomorrow, the deal will be sealed."
The men nodded, murmuring approval. Some raised glasses in toasts that tasted like ash in her mouth.
Aria's breath came fast, fury and fear colliding in her chest. She stepped forward, her voice shaking but strong. "I'm not your deal. I'm not your name. You can't just—"
Lorenzo turned to her then, and the look in his eyes silenced her more effectively than any guard could. His gaze was sharp, fire and ice woven together, dangerous and unyielding.
"I can," he said softly, though the softness was worse than a shout. "And I will. Because obedience comes before belonging, Aria. You will learn that."
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms, but no words came. The men watched with faint smirks, entertained by her defiance, but Lorenzo's attention never wavered. He wasn't amused. He was measuring her.
"Escort her to the east wing," he ordered finally, his eyes still locked on hers. "She will have a room tonight."
A room. A cage dressed in velvet.
As the guards moved to lead her away, Lorenzo's voice cut through the room one last time, steady, chilling, irrevocable.
"Tomorrow, she becomes mine."
The words echoed in her skull as the doors closed behind her, and she realized with horror that the nightmare wasn't ending—it was only beginning.