POV: Emilia Conti
I didn't sleep much that night either.
Not because the bed was uncomfortable—it was the opposite. Too soft. Too indulgent. The kind of comfort that made you aware of everything you didn't deserve to feel safe about.
The door between my suite and Alessio's room remained open.
I noticed that immediately.
Not wide open. Just enough that I could see the light from his room spill faintly into mine. Just enough to remind me that proximity was intentional now.
I lay on my side, staring at the thin line of light, listening.
Footsteps passed outside the suite every thirty minutes. I counted them. Different rhythms. Different weights. A rotation.
Guards.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
So this was visibility. Not freedom. Not trust.
A declaration.
When morning came, it arrived quietly. No alarms. No announcements. Just the slow brightening of the city beyond the glass walls and the realization that this was no longer temporary.
Someone knocked at my door.
I sat up instantly. "Yes?"
"It's Sofia," a woman's voice said. "I'm here to help you get ready."
"Ready for what?" I asked.
"For breakfast."
That didn't sound threatening. Which made it worse.
I opened the door.
Sofia was younger than the others I'd seen. Early thirties, maybe. Efficient but not cold. She carried a garment bag and a small tray with coffee.
"You didn't ask if I wanted company," I said.
She smiled faintly. "I was told not to."
I stepped aside reluctantly.
She hung the garment bag on a hook and handed me the coffee. I took it automatically, the warmth grounding.
"What's in the bag?" I asked.
"Clothes," she replied. "For today."
"What's today?"
She paused, choosing her words carefully. "A normal morning."
I snorted softly. "We have very different definitions of normal."
She didn't argue that.
The clothes were understated but expensive. A tailored dress in a neutral shade. Comfortable flats. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed luxury.
Intentional.
"You're being presented," I muttered.
Sofia met my eyes. "You're being acknowledged."
That felt worse.
After I dressed, she led me through the penthouse toward the dining area. As we walked, I noticed subtle changes—more guards, positioned closer together. Radios clipped to belts. Eyes following me openly now instead of pretending not to.
We entered the dining room.
Alessio stood near the window, jacket already on, coffee in hand. He turned when he heard us.
His gaze swept over me, quick and assessing. Not appreciative. Not possessive.
Strategic.
"Good morning," he said.
I stopped a few feet away. "You're making me visible."
"Yes."
"That wasn't a question."
He took a sip of coffee. "It's necessary."
"To prove what?" I asked.
"To prove you're under my protection."
The word sat heavily between us.
"To whom?" I pressed.
"Everyone."
The answer tightened something in my chest. "You're marking territory."
He didn't deny it. "I'm closing doors."
"And opening others."
"Yes."
I crossed my arms. "You could've warned me."
"You wouldn't have agreed."
"Try me."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't agree with this kind of thing. You endure it."
Anger flared. "That's your excuse for everything."
"No," he said calmly. "It's the truth of my world."
"And now it's mine?"
"For as long as you're here."
A man entered the room—older, dressed impeccably, eyes sharp. He inclined his head toward Alessio.
"Everything is set," he said. Then his gaze shifted to me. Curious. Measuring.
"This is Dr. Conti," Alessio said. "She'll be joining us."
The man smiled politely. "Of course."
No questions. No surprise.
That was when it hit me.
They already knew.
We moved toward the elevators together. Alessio walked beside me—not too close, not too far. Deliberate.
As the doors closed, I leaned toward him slightly. "You're parading me."
He didn't look at me. "I'm normalizing you."
"By making me an accessory?"
"By making you untouchable."
The elevator descended.
When the doors opened, I was greeted by a lobby that felt more like a private terminal than a residential space. Marble floors. Minimalist design. Men in suits scattered throughout, all pretending not to stare.
Failing.
Every eye flicked toward me. Then to Alessio. Then away.
The message was clear.
I stayed silent as we walked through, my posture straight, expression neutral. I knew how to perform composure. Years of hospital politics had taught me that.
Outside, black cars waited.
One of the men opened the rear door.
Alessio gestured. "After you."
I paused. "Where are we going?"
"A meeting."
"With who?"
"With people who need to see you alive," he replied.
I hesitated, then got in.
The car ride was short. Tense. No one spoke.
When we arrived, the building was nondescript. Office-like. Anonymous. But the security said otherwise.
Inside, the room was large and sterile. A long table. Several men were already seated. Conversations died the moment we entered.
Alessio didn't slow.
He guided me to the chair beside his and pulled it out. I sat.
Every eye locked onto me.
"This is Emilia Conti," Alessio said evenly. "She's under my protection."
Silence followed.
Then a man across the table spoke. "That's a liability."
Alessio's tone didn't change. "It's a decision."
"You're exposing her," another said.
"No," Alessio replied. "I'm shielding her."
I clenched my hands beneath the table.
"You're inviting attention," someone else added.
"That's the point."
The room shifted subtly. Unease. Calculation.
I realized then that this wasn't about me.
It was about him.
About his authority. His willingness to protect something publicly.
And I was the proof.
The meeting continued around me—territory, logistics, names I didn't recognize—but I caught fragments.
Attempts. Failures. Consequences.
At one point, a man leaned forward. "If something happens to her—"
"It won't," Alessio said flatly.
"And if it does?"
The room held its breath.
Alessio leaned back slightly, his gaze ice-cold. "Then whoever's responsible will wish it had been them instead."
No raised voice. No theatrics.
Just certainty.
The meeting ended shortly after.
As we stood to leave, several men nodded at me. Acknowledgment. Acceptance.
Fear.
Once we were back in the car, I finally spoke. "You didn't ask if I was willing to be your message."
He looked at me then. Really looked.
"I didn't," he agreed. "And I won't apologize for keeping you alive."
"That's not what this is anymore," I said quietly.
He held my gaze. "No?"
"This is ownership," I replied.
A pause.
"Visibility creates assumptions," he said. "I can't control all of them."
"But you can benefit from them."
"Yes."
I looked away, throat tight. "You're using me to stabilize your power."
"And you're alive because of it."
The car slowed as we approached the building again.
I turned back to him. "When this ends—if it ends—you don't get to decide who I am."
His eyes softened just slightly. "I wouldn't dare."
The doors opened.
As we stepped out, I felt it again—that sensation of being watched.
But now it was different.
Now they weren't just observing.
They were recognizing.
And the most dangerous realization of all settled in my chest—
I wasn't invisible anymore.
I was claimed.