The note felt like fire against her skin, even after she had hidden it deep inside the folds of a book in her room, tucked between pages she knew no one would bother to open. Its words, simple yet damning, circled her thoughts like a vulture: He's going to kill you. Every time Lorenzo's voice reached her, every time his hand brushed hers in some orchestrated public display or some careless private moment, the echo returned, louder, sharper. She tried to read the handwriting again and again in her mind, tried to remember the exact curve of the letters, but it only made her more paranoid. Who had given it to her? A stranger? A member of the family? Someone loyal to Lorenzo—or someone trying to turn her against him? The uncertainty rotted her peace, until even the servants' footsteps in the hallway sent her heart racing.
It was a dangerous seed planted in already poisoned soil. Aria began to see threats everywhere. The maid who lowered her eyes too quickly. The guard who lingered a beat too long outside her door. Even the housekeeper, whose smile seemed too knowing, too forced. But worst of all was Lorenzo himself, his presence both her shield and her captor. He moved through the house like a shadow carved of fire, his authority absolute, his silence heavy. And yet, in those silences, she felt her body betray her.
It was the smallest things at first. The way his hand brushed against hers when he passed her a glass of wine at dinner, his knuckles grazing her skin just enough to spark a shiver. The way he leaned too close when he whispered instructions before family meetings, his breath warm against her ear. The way his gaze lingered on her in moments he thought she wasn't watching, his dark eyes softening for a heartbeat before hardening again. These moments weren't staged, weren't for the watching eyes of others. They were real, unguarded. And that made them far more dangerous.
Aria told herself she hated him—that she had to hate him. He had stolen her freedom, chained her to his world of blood and power. But in the quiet hours, when she caught him standing at the window in the dead of night, his shoulders tense, his glass of whiskey untouched in his hand, she saw something else. A man carved out of scars and fire, one who had learned long ago to hide his wounds behind cruelty. And in those glimpses, something treacherous stirred inside her.
One evening, after another day of feigned smiles and suffocating silence, she passed him in the hallway. Their eyes met, and neither looked away. It should have been nothing—just a glance—but the air between them shifted, charged. He stepped aside for her, his hand brushing her elbow lightly, a touch that lingered long enough to make her breath catch. She told herself to keep walking, to ignore it. But her heart thundered in her chest, and she hated how much she noticed the warmth of his hand even after it was gone.
The stolen glances grew into something more. At dinner, she caught him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking, his gaze intense, his jaw set. When their eyes met, he didn't flinch away—he held her there, as if daring her to look deeper. When he touched her in public, his hand guiding her waist, it felt heavier, more deliberate. In private, the air thickened between them, silence charged with words unsaid, with touches withheld.
But trust was a currency she didn't have. The note haunted her too much for that.
It happened late one night, when the mansion had fallen into its usual hush, broken only by the distant murmur of guards and the whisper of the wind through the iron gates. Aria had wandered the corridors again, her footsteps soft against marble floors, her heart pounding at the risk of discovery. She told herself she was only restless, that she wanted to understand the prison she lived in. But the truth was that she was searching—for cracks, for secrets, for anything that could explain the note burning a hole in her thoughts.
That was how she found herself standing before the heavy oak door of Lorenzo's private office. The handle was cold beneath her fingers, and for a moment she froze, her chest tight. But the door yielded with a soft click, and she slipped inside. The room was as immaculate as the man himself: shelves lined with books, a globe resting in the corner, and a desk that gleamed under the dim glow of a single lamp. Papers were stacked neatly, files arranged with precision. It smelled faintly of leather and smoke, of power carefully bottled.
Her hands trembled as she reached for one of the folders, pulling it open just enough to skim the top sheet. Numbers, names, transactions she couldn't begin to decipher. But then her eyes caught something else—a handwritten note in the margin. The ink was faded, the words brief, but the handwriting—those sharp, uneven curves—was the same as the message she had hidden in her room.
Secure her. Do not let her slip.
Her pulse roared in her ears. The paper trembled between her fingers as the realization hit her like a blade: whoever had written the warning note had also touched these files, had been close enough to leave their mark in Lorenzo's world. Was it someone working against him—or someone working for him? And if it was the same hand, what did it mean for her?
The floor creaked outside, the sound of approaching footsteps. Aria's chest seized. She stuffed the file back into place, her fingers fumbling as the door handle turned slowly. Her eyes darted to the window, to the shadows, to anywhere she could hide. The papers shifted, one edge jutting out crookedly, a silent betrayal of her trespass.
The door began to open, the light from the hallway spilling in, and Aria's breath caught in her throat, her body frozen between fear and defiance. And all the while, the words on that hidden scrap of paper screamed louder than ever.
He's going to kill you.