The candlelight flickered across silver and crystal, casting sharp glints against wine glasses filled to the brim with red as dark as blood. The dining hall smelled of roasted meats, garlic, rich sauces—an opulence that made Aria's stomach twist rather than growl. She sat at Lorenzo's right hand, her posture rigid, her fingers cold despite the heat of the flames licking in the fireplace behind her. Across from her sat strangers with familiar eyes—men and women cut from the same cloth as Lorenzo: sharp suits, expensive jewelry, expressions that veiled cruelty behind polite smiles.
They didn't look at her with kindness. They looked at her like she was a curiosity. A joke. A pawn they had already judged and dismissed.
"So," said a woman two seats down, her lipstick the shade of crushed cherries. She leaned forward, elbow resting lazily on the table, chin in hand. "The new bride." Her accent curled around the words like smoke. "Do you like the dress? It suits you, though I suppose anything would, when chosen for you." Her eyes flicked toward Lorenzo, then back, and the meaning was clear: Aria was nothing more than a mannequin.
A ripple of laughter spread across the table. Aria felt the heat crawl up her throat, but she forced her jaw tight, her nails digging crescents into her palm beneath the linen. She wanted to snap back, to tell them she wasn't some doll to be dressed and paraded, but she could feel the weight of every gaze, the anticipation of her failure. If she gave them her anger, she'd be giving them exactly what they wanted.
Another man, broad-shouldered with a scar slicing down his cheek, raised his glass. "To obedience," he said with a smirk, and a few others chuckled as they clinked their glasses together.
Aria's pulse hammered, but she kept her lips pressed shut. She lifted her own glass slowly, deliberately, and sipped the wine. She hated its bitterness, hated the way it burned, but she let the liquid coat her tongue and set the glass down with steady hands. If they expected her to wilt, they'd be waiting a long time.
But their eyes didn't relent. Another voice cut through—a younger man, his tie loosened, his grin lazy. "Tell us, signora, what did you do before you were elevated into our world? Surely something humble, no?" The word "humble" dripped from his mouth like poison, dressed as politeness but meant to sting.
Aria's throat went dry. She thought of her father, of the endless nights working just to scrape by, of the scholarship she had almost earned. If she told the truth, they would mock her. If she lied, they would know.
"She studied," Lorenzo's voice cut in, smooth as a blade slicing through silence.
Every head turned slightly toward him, the atmosphere shifting in an instant. His tone hadn't risen, but it carried authority that demanded attention. He leaned back in his chair, one hand curled loosely around his glass. "Top of her class. Bright enough to walk away from all of you and make a name for herself, had circumstances not intervened." His eyes flicked toward the young man, hardening. "I suppose the same cannot be said for everyone at this table."
A low murmur rippled through the guests. The young man's grin faltered, and he looked down at his plate, suddenly fascinated by the roast in front of him.
Aria froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. He had defended her. Not with tenderness, not with kindness—but with steel. With pride.
Why?
The woman with red lips tilted her head, studying Lorenzo with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "So protective already, cousin. How sweet."
"Protective?" Lorenzo's smile was sharp. "No. Correcting ignorance. I don't tolerate fools at my table."
The air thickened, the laughter that had once flowed freely now subdued. No one dared press further. Aria sat frozen, her chest tight, her mind racing. She had been ready for humiliation. She had braced for cruelty. But not this. Not his defense.
Throughout the rest of the meal, the scrutiny didn't end, but it shifted. The questions became subtler, the jabs less obvious. Aria kept her head high, answering only when directly spoken to, her voice calm, her words measured. She could feel the storm of judgment swirling around her, but she clung to her vow: I will not break. Not here. Not now.
Still, she couldn't ignore the man at her side. Every time he raised his glass, she felt compelled to mirror him. Every time his sleeve brushed hers, she caught the faintest whiff of his cologne—smoke and spice, a scent that unsettled her in ways she didn't want to name.
And when the final plates were cleared, when the laughter dimmed and the guests began to rise, Aria dared a glance toward him.
He was already looking at her.
For the briefest second, the mask cracked. Behind his cold, calculated gaze, she saw something else—something raw, something unguarded. A flicker of humanity, maybe even vulnerability, hidden deep beneath layers of armor. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by the same composed façade.
But Aria had seen it.
And that terrified her more than any of their mocking words, more than the rules, more than the chains of her new life.
Because it meant Lorenzo De Luca was not only the man who had stolen her freedom. He was also something else. Something dangerous in an entirely different way.