Italy smelled like rain and secrets.
When I stepped out of the black car that brought me to the De Luca estate, my palms were already damp. The gates behind me closed with a sound that felt too final—like a cage locking shut. The mansion stood ahead, tall and severe, with marble walls that caught the fading sunlight and turned it cold.
I told myself this was just another job. A secretary position. Nothing more.
But the way the guards looked at me… the way the air itself felt heavier… I knew that wasn't true.
"Miss Bennett?" one of them asked, though the name sounded foreign on my tongue.
"Yes," I lied smoothly, clutching the folder against my chest. "Zara Bennett."
He nodded once, pressed something into his earpiece, and motioned for me to follow. My heels clicked against the marble steps, echoing too loudly in the silence.
Inside, everything was glass and gold. Expensive. Dangerous.
And then I saw him.
Lorenzo De Luca.
Black suit. Cold eyes. The kind of man whose presence rearranged the air in the room. He looked up from a file, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.He didn't speak at first. Just flipped a page in the file before him, the sound of paper slicing through silence.
"Zara Bennett," he repeated at last, his Italian accent turning the Z into something that purred. "Twenty-three. Former personal assistant to Signor Moretti."
Every word felt like a test.
"Yes, sir," I answered, keeping my tone steady.
Lorenzo's eyes lifted slowly. They were grey—not soft grey, but steel. "You lasted three months with Moretti. Why so short?"
I swallowed. Because he found out who I really was.
"Personal differences," I said instead.
He leaned back in his chair, studying me like he was peeling layers off my skin. "You type?"
"Yes."
"Take shorthand?"
"Yes."
"Lie?"
I froze. "Excuse me?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Every secretary lies. It's part of the job. The question is how well."
My pulse tripped. I forced a small smile. "I suppose I'll let my work prove itself."
He tapped the desk once, sharp. "We'll see."
"Follow me."
He didn't wait for an answer, just turned toward a hallway lined with tall mirrors. I gathered my folder, forcing my feet to move. The marble floor carried the echo of his footstepsband mine, a hesitant shadow following too closely.
We passed portraits of men who all had the same eyes: hard, silver-grey, distant. I wondered which one had first decided that power was best expressed in silence.
At the end of the corridor, he opened a heavy door. The office beyond looked nothing like I'd imagined—no clutter, no warmth. Just order. A glass desk, two black chairs, and a wall of books that probably no one ever touched.
"You'll work here," he said. "My last secretary left suddenly."
"Suddenly?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked over his shoulder, that faint curve at his mouth again—half amusement, half warning. "People in this house often do things suddenly."
The words landed like cold water. I nodded, pretending not to notice.
He walked behind his desk, loosened his tie, and opened a drawer. "Every call comes through you first. You'll schedule meetings, keep my calendar clean, and stay out of conversations that aren't yours."
"Yes, sir."
"Lorenzo," he corrected softly. "Not sir. I'm not your headmaster."
The sound of his name on his own lips did something strange to me like hearing the beginning of a story I wasn't ready for. "Understood… Lorenzo."
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Just watched me. The silence stretched until it felt like a touch.
Then he turned away. "You start tomorrow at eight. Lucia will show you to the guest quarters."
He was already seated again when I backed toward the door. His attention had drifted to the papers in front of him—as if I were already dismissed, already invisible.
But just as my hand touched the doorknob, his voice came low, unreadable.
"Miss Bennett."
I froze. "Yes?"
He didn't look up. "Next time you decide to lie, at least make it sound convincing."
My stomach flipped. "I—I don't know what you mean."
This time he did look up. His eyes met mine, cool and exact.
"Oh, I think you do."
Lucia led me through the mansion's quiet halls, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet.
"The guest quarters are this way, Miss Bennett," she said softly. Her eyes didn't meet mine.
Everyone here spoke like the walls had ears.
The corridor turned once, then twice. Finally, she stopped before a polished oak door. Inside, the room was too perfect — white silk sheets, a vase of red roses, a window that opened to a garden veiled in mist.
"If you need anything," Lucia whispered, "don't wander. Just ring the bell."
"Why would I wander?" I asked, trying to smile.
She hesitated, then murmured, "Because sometimes… the house calls you first."
Before I could ask what she meant, she left, closing the door softly behind her.
---
I sat on the edge of the bed, letting the silence stretch. The rain had started again, tracing silver lines down the glass.
I reached for my phone—no service. Of course. The De Luca estate was its own island, a fortress where signals went to die.
Removing my heels, I caught my reflection in the mirror: the polite smile, the calm eyes, the tidy hair. All lies. Beneath that face was someone else—a woman who had changed her name, erased her past, and crossed an ocean to start again.
Zara Bennett didn't exist six months ago.
And if Lorenzo De Luca ever found out who I really was, neither would I.
---
A soft knock startled me. I froze.
When I opened the door, a man in black stood there — one of the guards from earlier. His expression didn't shift.
"Mr. De Luca requests you in his office."
"At this hour?"
He didn't answer.
I followed him through the dim corridors, my pulse tapping in my throat. The mansion felt different at night — quieter, darker, almost alive.
When the guard opened the office door, Lorenzo was standing by the window, sleeves rolled up, a glass of amber liquor in his hand.
He didn't turn. "Do you always flinch when someone knocks, Miss Bennett?"
"I wasn't expecting company."
He smiled faintly at the window's reflection. "Fear suits you."
I straightened. "Was there something you needed?"
"Yes." He turned, the light catching the sharpness of his jaw. "Honesty."
I frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."
He walked closer, slow and unhurried. "Your résumé says you worked in Milan before Moretti. Yet there's no record of a Zara Bennett anywhere in Milan."
My chest tightened. "That's… that's strange. Maybe—"
He cut me off, voice low, dangerous. "Don't insult me with maybe."
I took a step back, my heel brushing the carpet edge. His eyes held me still — not with force, but precision.
Then, softly, he said, "Tell me, Elena Romano, how long did you think you could hide?"
My heart stopped.
No one had called me that name in years.
His gaze softened just slightly, a cruel kind of mercy.
"Welcome to your new cage, Elena."
The glass in his hand glinted under the low light, like a promise.
And that was when I realized — it wasn't bars or locks that made a cage.
It was the man who held the key