The morning came far too quickly, its pale light filtering through the heavy curtains as though reluctant to intrude on the shadows that clung to the room. Aria stirred beneath the silken sheets, her body restless, her mind caught between fractured dreams and the memory that refused to let her go. The kiss. It lingered like fire on her lips, as real and undeniable as the air in her lungs. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ornate ceiling, her chest tightening with confusion. How could she have let it happen? How could she have wanted it, even for a second? She pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if to erase the sensation, but all it did was reignite the heat that had stolen her resolve the night before.
Her thoughts churned, a storm of anger and shame and something far more dangerous—desire she refused to admit to herself. She told herself it was the adrenaline, the fear, the chaos of the gunfire outside. That kiss had been nothing more than the collision of two people caught in a tempest. And yet… and yet… she couldn't ignore how her heart had pounded not with terror, but with hunger. She hated herself for it. Hated him more for making her feel it.
The door creaked open, and Lorenzo entered as if the world hadn't shifted, as though nothing had happened between them. He was dressed already, crisp suit in place, his tie knotted neatly, the perfect picture of composure. His dark hair was slicked back, not a trace of the chaos of last night clinging to him. If anything, he looked sharper, more untouchable than ever, as though he had forged himself anew in the fire of danger. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, then moved toward the dresser to adjust his cufflinks, silent, efficient, as though she were nothing more than a fixture in the room.
The stark contrast made her stomach twist. How could he pretend so easily? Did that kiss mean nothing to him? The heat of it had unraveled her, yet he stood before her now as if it had never happened. The insult stung worse than if he had mocked her for it. At least that would have been an acknowledgment. This cold indifference was its own kind of cruelty.
"You're awake," he said finally, his tone flat, businesslike. "Good. You'll need to be ready. The family expects you at breakfast."
Aria pushed herself upright, clutching the sheet around her as though it were armor. "That's it?" she demanded before she could stop herself. "After last night—"
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp and cutting. For a heartbeat, something darker lingered there, but he smothered it quickly, turning back to his reflection in the mirror. "Last night was nothing more than survival," he said coolly. "Don't mistake it for more than it was."
The words sliced through her, sharp and cold, leaving her breathless with fury. Survival. Was that what he called it? That kiss had felt like the opposite of survival—it had felt like drowning, like losing herself completely. She bit back the storm in her chest, refusing to let him see the way he had shaken her. Instead, she forced her tone to match his. "You're right. It meant nothing."
But the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
When he moved toward her, she stiffened instinctively, but he only reached past her to adjust the curtain, pulling it back slightly to let in more light. For a brief second, his hand brushed hers. It was nothing, just the barest touch, but it set her nerves on edge. And then, in that same moment, as if betraying the cold words he had spoken, his other hand lifted almost without thought, gently pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen across her face. His touch lingered just a second too long, his eyes meeting hers with something unspoken before he pulled away, mask snapping back into place.
The contradiction left her dizzy. He couldn't claim it meant nothing and then touch her like that. He couldn't kiss her like he owned her and then pretend she was invisible. Every gesture, every word, pulled her deeper into the labyrinth of him, and she hated how lost she already felt inside it.
Breakfast was a blur of stares and whispers, the elders watching her every move, the wives murmuring behind jeweled hands. Lorenzo sat at the head of the long table, silent, commanding, every gesture precise, every word calculated. When someone dared to direct a mocking question at Aria, implying she was little more than collateral in a game too big for her, she stiffened, her reply sharp on her tongue. But before she could speak, Lorenzo's hand brushed against hers beneath the table—a silent warning, or perhaps protection. She froze, glancing at him, and found his gaze steady, unflinching. He didn't correct the insult aloud, but his subtle gesture made its meaning clear: I heard. I won't forget.
It was enough to silence her words, enough to confuse her further. Because he couldn't be both—the cold, indifferent master and the man who shielded her in shadows. And yet he was. And it terrified her.
Later, after breakfast, when the others dispersed and the mansion began to hum with the quiet rhythm of daily operations, Aria found herself wandering the hallway that overlooked the courtyard. Guards moved briskly below, their tension still palpable in the wake of last night's warning shots. She lingered by the window, watching, her thoughts tangled, when a voice drifted up from the stairwell below.
She stilled, straining to hear. It was Lorenzo. His tone was low but edged with steel, the kind of voice that made men obey without question.
"If she betrays me," he said, each word measured, lethal, "make her disappear."
Aria's blood ran cold.
She pressed herself back against the wall, her breath caught, her heart thundering in her chest. Betrayal. Disappear. The words echoed in her skull, pounding like the gunshots from the night before.
The storm inside her had only just begun, and she realized with a sinking weight in her chest that she might not survive it at all.