The storm outside had been battering the mansion all night, the rain thrashing against the tall windows like a thousand fists demanding entry, but Aria barely heard it. She had been wandering, restless, her silk slippers whispering across the marble floors of the corridors, her heart hammering in ways she couldn't fully explain. The Romano heir's words still coiled inside her, poisonous and lingering, replaying each time she closed her eyes: Lorenzo will sacrifice you for power. And now, in the silence of the sleeping house, she found herself standing before the dark wood door of Lorenzo's study. The place she had been told never to go without him. The place that reeked of secrets every time she walked past it.
The handle was locked, of course, but she had already learned the rhythms of this house, the habits of the men who claimed to control it. One of the guards carried a key—she had noticed how often he lingered by this room. And earlier that evening, she had "accidentally" brushed against him, long enough to notice how clumsy he was in keeping it secure. A distraction, a delicate hand, a stolen moment. Now the key was in her palm, warm from her touch. She fit it into the lock and held her breath as the mechanism clicked. The sound was louder than thunder in her ears.
The study was a world of shadows and leather, the scent of smoke and old books lingering like ghosts. Shelves lined the walls, towering with tomes that looked untouched, their spines cracked only by time. The massive desk dominated the center of the room, papers strewn across it with the casual chaos of a man who lived in both order and fire. But it wasn't the desk that drew her. It was the corner, the faint gleam behind a painting that hung slightly askew. She had seen Lorenzo adjust it once, so casually it might have been overlooked. But she hadn't forgotten.
Aria moved the frame aside, her hands trembling, revealing the small steel door embedded into the wall. A safe. Her chest tightened. She should leave. She should lock the study and return to her gilded cage of a bedroom before she was caught. But her father's face rose in her memory, weary and desperate, the phone call where he could barely speak through shame, the truth that she was only here because of his debt. That debt had stolen her life, her freedom, her very body. And if there was even a chance that this safe contained answers, she had to see.
The lock wasn't simple, but she had time. She had always been clever with numbers, with patterns, with finding solutions in chaos. She listened to the tumblers with her ear pressed close, her heart pounding with every click. She tried once, twice, three times. Finally, the final rotation fell into place with a heavy, damning thunk. The door creaked open.
Inside were stacks of papers, envelopes, contracts bound with twine. She pulled them out with shaking hands, scanning signatures, dates, numbers that blurred before her eyes. But then she saw it. Her father's name. Written again and again, alongside amounts so astronomical she thought her heart might stop. But it wasn't just debt. It wasn't just his weakness. These numbers were wrong. Inflated. Manipulated. And the signatures on the other side—herself listed as collateral, her life reduced to a line on paper—bore marks that did not match her father's handwriting.
Her breath caught. It was a trap. From the beginning. Her father had been reckless, yes, but someone had twisted it into something far larger, forcing him into a corner where there was only one repayment left: her.
She dug deeper, pulling out another file, one that detailed transfers and shell companies, all leading back to names she didn't recognize, initials that meant nothing—until she saw one, small, scrawled at the bottom of a page. An "R." Romano.
The room spun around her. She was on her knees before the safe, her hands full of papers that burned with the weight of betrayal, when the sound cut through her trance. A footstep. Heavy, deliberate, close.
Aria froze. Slowly, like the world itself was dragging her down, she turned.
Lorenzo stood in the doorway. His suit jacket hung open, his tie loosened, his hair slightly damp from the storm outside. His eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—fell not on her face, but on the gaping safe behind her, the documents clutched in her guilty hands. His jaw tightened. The silence between them was heavier than gunfire.
Her lips parted, her breath shaking. She wanted to speak, to explain, to accuse—but no words came. The air seemed to shiver around him as he stepped forward, slow, each movement radiating power and fury barely leashed. He stopped just short of her, his shadow falling over her like a cloak.
"What," he said softly, his voice a dangerous whisper, "are you doing with my safe open?"