The mansion was quiet in a way that never felt natural. Guards still lingered outside, staff still moved silently down the hallways, and somewhere in the east wing Lorenzo was likely bent over paperwork or plotting his next move, yet to Aria it felt like silence had swallowed the walls. She sat in the bay window of her room, knees drawn to her chest, staring out at the sweeping gardens bathed in late afternoon light. The roses were trimmed, the hedges perfect, the fountains spraying crystal arcs of water into the air—and yet none of it belonged to her. None of it ever would. The reflection in the glass stared back at her, pale and sharper than she remembered, eyes no longer soft with innocence but hardened with something she didn't quite recognize. That was when the thought crept in: she wasn't the girl she used to be.
That girl had laughed too loud at sleepovers, whispering secrets under blankets until dawn. She had dreamed of scholarships, of traveling, of studying art and sketching the faces of strangers in coffee shops. She had complained about exams, rolled her eyes at her father's rules, fought with her mother about curfews. All of it felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, as though the Aria in those memories was a ghost she could only glimpse through fog. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and tried to summon the warmth of those days, the laughter, the safety of being unknown. But every time she tried, Lorenzo's shadow crept in, reminding her of the bargain her father had made, the chains around her wrists disguised as diamond bracelets.
Aria let her mind wander back to her friends—the girls she had shared lunches with, the boy who had once scribbled a note to her in the margins of his notebook, her teachers who had told her she was capable of anything. What would they say now, if they saw her standing beside Lorenzo at dinners where men who killed with their bare hands toasted to loyalty? What would they think if they knew she had once sworn she would never let anyone control her, only to end up as a possession, a wife in name and prisoner in truth? The thought cut so deep she almost couldn't breathe.
She rose from the window seat, pacing the room, her steps restless. Everything here glistened with luxury—silk sheets, gilded mirrors, closets filled with dresses she hadn't chosen. Yet none of it touched the hollow ache inside her chest. She missed her old clothes, the soft hoodie she'd worn to class, the jeans ripped at the knees, the sneakers scuffed from too many walks across campus. She missed herself—the girl who wasn't afraid to laugh at stupid jokes, who believed her future was hers to shape. Now, when she looked in the mirror, she saw a stranger. Stronger, maybe. Colder, definitely. But also someone who had lost pieces of herself she feared she could never get back.
The transformation had happened so quickly it unsettled her. Weeks ago she would have cried at the sight of blood, turned away from violence, recoiled at the idea of loving someone like Lorenzo. Now she had seen him with blood on his hands, had stitched his wounds, had felt her heart race when he touched her, had wanted more even though she hated herself for it. She had shouted at mafia men twice her size, had stood in rooms filled with predators and refused to bow her head. She had grown into someone who could survive here, but at what cost? The girl she used to be would never recognize the woman she was becoming.
Aria sank into the armchair by the fire, curling her fingers into the fabric, and let her mind drift to her father. His betrayal had set this all in motion. The debt, the bargain, the way he had signed her life away without hesitation. She wondered if he thought about her now, if he regretted what he had done, or if he convinced himself she was fine because she lived in luxury. The truth was, she had never felt further from fine. She was surviving, yes. Maybe even stronger than she had been before. But she had lost something she could never recover: the certainty that her life belonged to her.
As the fire crackled softly, she imagined what it would be like to see her old friends again, to sit in their kitchens with mismatched mugs of coffee, to talk about classes and dreams and boys who weren't lethal. Would they even recognize her anymore? Or would they see the hardness in her eyes, the weight in her posture, the scars no one else could see? She feared the answer. Because she wasn't sure she recognized herself either.
It was in that fragile, aching moment that the interruption came. A soft knock on her door, the slip of paper sliding under it, the sound of footsteps retreating too quickly to trace. Aria frowned, rising slowly, her heart already thudding with unease. She picked up the folded note, her hands trembling despite herself. The handwriting was rushed, hurried, but familiar in a way that made her chest tighten. She unfolded it carefully, eyes scanning the short, sharp message.
Don't trust him.
Her breath hitched. At the bottom was a signature she hadn't seen in weeks, one that pulled her violently back into the life she thought she'd lost forever. It was from an old friend.
Her knees went weak, the fire roaring behind her as the paper trembled in her hands. The past had just found its way into the heart of her prison, and with it came a warning that could shatter everything she thought she was beginning to understand.
The girl she used to be had just reached out across the distance. And she had told her something Aria both feared and desperately needed to know: Lorenzo De Luca could not be trusted.