The mansion was silent.
Not the comforting silence of an empty home, but the heavy, suffocating silence of a place built to remind anyone who entered that power ruled here. Shadows stretched across the high ceilings and polished floors, flickering in the faint glow of distant lamps. Every creak of the wood, every muted thump of the HVAC, every whisper of the air sounded louder than it should have. My senses were on high alert, my nerves coiled tight as a spring, ready to snap.
I pressed my back against the leather chair Dante had ordered me into, legs pulled tightly to my chest, and tried to calm my racing thoughts. Think, Mila. Think.
But the truth was simple: I was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
The rules he had laid down earlier repeated in my mind, echoing like a warning I could not escape:
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Don't touch anything.
Don't leave your designated spot.
Don't try to escape.
Each instruction a silent promise of consequences I dared not imagine.
Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time had lost all meaning. The room was both large and small at the same time, its high ceilings and shadowed corners amplifying my isolation. I pressed my hands over my face, trying to block out the fear, but it was no use. The memory of him—Dante—loomed over me like a predator that had already claimed me.
I wanted to move, to run, to scream. But my body refused. My mind raced, thinking of what I could do. There has to be a way out. A window. A door. Something.
I crawled silently to the edge of the chair and peered toward the window. Black velvet curtains blocked the view of the outside world. I pressed my fingers against the thick fabric, trying to see beyond the night, but all I could see was darkness.
The mansion itself seemed alive, whispering in shadows, mocking me. Every corner felt watched, every polished surface reflected not light but menace. The sense of being trapped extended beyond the physical walls—it was psychological, suffocating, and inescapable.
And then I realized something far more terrifying: there was no escape.
I sank back into the chair, my chest tight, eyes brimming with tears I refused to let fall. The silence was oppressive, yet broken by a sudden, deliberate click of heels echoing down the hall. My head snapped toward the sound.
Dante.
He appeared in the doorway, dressed impeccably in black. His presence alone seemed to command the room, swallowing the shadows and the light alike. His eyes—dark, dangerous, unyielding—locked onto mine.
"You're awake," he said softly, almost amused.
I nodded, unable to speak. My throat felt dry, my lips stiff. Every nerve in my body screamed to flee, but I knew I couldn't.
He circled the chair slowly, like a hunter inspecting prey, his gaze never leaving me. "Good," he said. "You're learning. Fear is useful. It keeps you alive… sometimes."
I flinched at his words. My mind tried to argue, to rebel, but my body refused. I stayed rooted, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Not out of courage. Not yet. But because I needed to understand what I was dealing with.
Dante stopped behind me, his hand brushing lightly along the back of the chair—not enough to touch me fully, but enough to make the air between us burn. "You think you understand danger," he said, his voice a low rumble, "but you don't. Not yet."
I swallowed, trying to steady my breathing. "I… I won't cause trouble," I whispered, the words trembling.
His lips curved slightly. Not a smile. Something darker, more dangerous. "Good. Compliance is… recommended. But don't mistake it for weakness. I can see everything. I know everything. And you… you are mine now."
I shivered involuntarily.
The room was still again, except for my uneven breathing. I pressed my palms against the armrests, trying to remind myself I was alive. But the truth was harder to admit than I expected: part of me couldn't stop thinking about him. About his voice, his presence, the way he had claimed me so completely.
Fear and fascination collided inside me in ways I had never felt before. I hated it. I hated him. And yet… a small, stubborn part of me—against all reason—wanted to understand him.
Minutes stretched into hours. My thoughts were a chaotic mess: questions, fear, and an odd, creeping curiosity. I wondered what kind of man he was, what he wanted from me, and why the thought of disobeying him made me tremble in more ways than one.
I pressed my palms to my face, trying to block out the images of the night, the way he had looked at me in The Oval, the way he had taken me so effortlessly. But I couldn't escape him—even in my mind.
And then the door opened again.
He stepped inside, his black suit perfectly tailored, every movement precise and deliberate. His gaze scanned the room slowly, deliberately, before landing on me
.
"You're awake," he said, voice low, smooth, and dangerous. "Good. That makes my job easier."
I shrank back slightly, instinctive fear making my body curl inward.
He circled once more, every step measured, every eye movement exact. "You'll learn the rules quickly," he said. "Obey them, and this night will end without… incident. Disobey, and I won't be responsible for the consequences."
I pressed my hands against my knees, trying to steady myself. The weight of his words settled over me like a physical force.
He stopped behind the chair again, leaning slightly closer. "Sleep," he said softly, almost tenderly, but his voice carried steel. "Or don't. I don't care. But remember the rules. Obey them, and nothing will happen tonight. Break them… and you'll regret it."
I swallowed hard. My pulse raced uncontrollably. My body shook with a mix of fear, adrenaline, and something I refused to name.
He lingered a moment longer, as if imprinting himself into the room, into my mind. Then, without another word, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence returned.
I sank further into the chair, my legs shaking, tears threatening to spill. The mansion, silent and imposing, stretched endlessly around me. Every shadow seemed alive, moving, watching. I realized that my life had been stolen, my world rewritten, and that escape was not only impossible—it was unimaginable.
Yet, somewhere deep inside, a dangerous thought took root. Part of me—the part I refused to acknowledge—was curious about him. About this man who could take someone so completely, who could make the air around him feel like fire and ice all at once.
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead to my knees, trying to block the world, to block him, to block the fear—and failing.
Because Dante Moretti was in every thought, every shadow, every heartbeat. And he would not let me go.