The evening had begun like all the others: a dinner arranged not for pleasure but for power. Lorenzo thrived in these gatherings—long tables spread with expensive wines, laughter that never reached the eyes, conversations loaded with veiled threats. For Aria, they were theater, a stage where she played her role as the silent, watchful wife, her every gesture scrutinized by men who saw her as nothing more than an ornament bound to a king.
She had prepared herself for it. The gown, chosen by the staff, clung to her like armor, dark silk threaded with silver that shimmered beneath the chandeliers. Her hair was smoothed, her lips painted, her smile frozen in place like a mask. She thought she could endure it, thought she could hide behind the silence Lorenzo demanded of her. But the night was not kind.
It was during the second course, when the room had filled with clinking glasses and smug laughter, that it happened. One of the older men—a cousin of Lorenzo's, powerful in his own right, his gut straining against his tailored suit—leaned across the table, his gaze sliding down Aria like oil. His lips curled into a smirk that made her skin crawl.
"So this is the bride," he said loudly enough for the room to pause, his tone thick with derision. "Pretty thing. Shame about the circumstances, eh, Lorenzo? Your father would have chosen better stock."
A few men chuckled, others looked away. The cousin leaned back, swirling his wine, eyes gleaming with cruelty. "Does she even know how to sit at a table like this? Or is she still learning which fork to use?"
Heat flooded Aria's face, her chest tightening with humiliation. She had been insulted before, mocked in whispers and glances, but never so openly. She forced herself to sit tall, her hands trembling only slightly in her lap. She wanted to speak, to cut him down with words, but the rules pounded in her head—silence, obedience, appearances. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, willing herself not to break.
But Lorenzo did.
The moment the insult left the man's mouth, Lorenzo stilled. It was subtle at first, a pause in the way he lifted his glass, a tightening of his jaw. Aria felt it before she saw it, the shift in the air, the way the temperature seemed to plummet. His eyes slid to his cousin, dark and unblinking, and the laughter in the room faltered.
"Say that again," Lorenzo said, his voice low, controlled, dangerous.
The cousin smirked, emboldened by age and arrogance. "I said she's—"
The words never finished.
In a blur of movement, Lorenzo slammed his fist onto the table so hard the crystal rattled and a wine glass toppled, spilling red like blood across the linen. He was on his feet before anyone could react, his chair skidding back violently, and then he was across the table, seizing the man by the front of his suit.
The cousin's smirk vanished as Lorenzo dragged him half out of his seat, the room erupting in startled gasps. Plates clattered, forks dropped. Lorenzo's face was inches from his, his voice no longer low but a snarl that shook the walls.
"You dare," he spat, his words like fire. "You dare put your filthy mouth on her name? In my presence? In my house?"
The cousin sputtered, trying to speak, but Lorenzo shook him hard enough that his teeth clacked shut. The room held its breath, every man at the table frozen, every woman shrinking into their seats. No one moved. No one interfered.
Aria's heart thundered. She had seen Lorenzo's power before, his control, his ruthlessness at negotiations. But this—this was not business. This was fury. Raw, unrestrained, terrifying in its intensity. She should have been afraid, and she was—her skin prickled, her pulse raced—but beneath it was something she couldn't name, something that left her breathless.
"You forget yourself," Lorenzo hissed, his hand tightening around the man's throat now, cutting off his air. The cousin's face reddened, his hands clawing uselessly at Lorenzo's wrist. "You forget who I am. Who she is. She is my wife. She bears my name. And no one—no one—disrespects what is mine."
The words rang through the dining hall like a gunshot.
For a moment, Aria thought Lorenzo would kill him right there, snap his neck in front of everyone. The veins in his arm stood out, his teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes burning with a fire that looked capable of razing the world. And in that moment, she believed the whispers, the fear, the legend of Lorenzo De Luca. He wasn't just ruthless. He was wrath incarnate.
But then, with a growl of disgust, Lorenzo released him, shoving him back into his chair so violently the man choked and gasped for breath, clutching at his throat.
The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved, no one breathed. All eyes were on Lorenzo, standing tall at the head of the table, his chest rising and falling with barely controlled rage. His gaze swept the room, daring anyone else to speak. None did.
Slowly, he turned his head, and his eyes met Aria's. For the first time, his fury softened—not much, just enough that she felt the shift. It wasn't pity. It wasn't apology. It was possession, yes, but it was also something sharper, something more dangerous. He had done this not for politics, not for appearances, but for her.
Aria's breath caught, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to look away, to shield herself from the intensity of his gaze, but she couldn't. She was caught, trapped not by his cage but by the fire in his eyes.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, but it cut deeper than any shout. He leaned over the table, his words dripping with venom, directed at every man and woman who dared to look at her as anything less than untouchable.
"No one touches what's mine."
The room flinched, the cousin paling, the others bowing their heads. And Aria sat frozen, her hands trembling in her lap, her body alight with fear and something dangerously close to longing. Because for the first time since her chains had been sealed, she didn't feel invisible.
She felt seen.
And that was more terrifying than anything else.