Elara's POV
Back in the penthouse, the silence was heavier than the emerald gown she still wore. Luca had walked straight to his office, his movements stiff with a tension she hadn't seen before. The doors shut behind him, leaving her alone in the vast, cold living room. She stood there, her arms wrapped around herself, the ghost of Viktor's smile still crawling over her skin.
She didn't know how long she stood there before she moved. The dress felt like a cage. She fumbled with the zipper, her fingers numb and clumsy, and finally stepped out of the heavy fabric, leaving it in a shimmering heap on the floor. She pulled on the soft, expensive pajamas, but they brought no comfort. The cold was inside her now.
She could still hear Viktor's voice. Fragile things break so easily.
A soft knock at her bedroom door made her jump. It wasn't the stylist or the silent maid. It was Silas, Luca's head of security. His face was a stone mask. "Mr. Conti requests your presence in his study."
Her heart thudded. Now what? She followed him, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. The study doors were open. Luca stood by his desk, his back to her, looking out at the city. In his hand, he held a single piece of paper.
"Close the door," he said, without turning.
Silas did, leaving her alone with him. The room felt charged, like the air before a storm.
"Read it," Luca said, finally turning. He placed the paper on the desk, sliding it toward her.
Her legs felt like wood as she approached. The paper was thick and expensive. The message was typed, the font clean and sharp.
"Conti.
The ornament on your arm is pretty. Fragile. It would be a shame to see something so delicate… break.
The harbor routes. Sign them over by midnight tomorrow.
Refuse, and I will take her from you. I won't ask twice.
-V"
A burgundy smudge, like a wine stain or a lipstick kiss, marred the bottom corner. A vulgar signature.
The words blurred. Her breath hitched. The harbor routes. She didn't know what they were, but she knew they were valuable. He was asking Luca to give up something important. For her. Because of her.
"And if you don't?" Her voice was a dry whisper.
"Then he will try to take you." Luca's voice was flat, factual. "To use you. To hurt you. To prove he can."
"Will you?" The question tore from her. "Will you give them to him?"
His gray eyes held hers. There was no hesitation. "No."
The single word was a death sentence. He wouldn't trade for her. She was a problem, a complication, but not a priority. The cold logic of it was like a punch to the gut. She'd known it, of course. She was a pawn. But hearing it, seeing the calculation in his eyes, hollowed her out.
"I see," she said, her voice strangely calm. The panic had burned away, leaving a numb, clear emptiness. "So, what happens now? Do I just wait for him to come?"
Luca moved then, a quick, fluid step that brought him around the desk. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a wall. "You misunderstand. I am not giving him what he wants. But I am also not letting him take you. His threat changes the game."
"Changes it how?"
"It makes you the battlefield." He picked up the note, his fingers curling, crumpling it slowly. The sound was loud in the quiet room. "Viktor thinks by threatening you, he forces my hand. He thinks you are a weakness he can exploit. He is wrong."
"Then what am I?" The numbness cracked, letting a sliver of raw fear through. "If I'm not a weakness, what am I to you?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. He studied her face, her fear, her defiance. "You are a responsibility," he said finally, each word deliberate. "One I accepted when I brought you here. Viktor has now made you a point of honor. To take you would be to show I cannot protect what is mine. In my world, that is an invitation for every other predator to move in. I cannot allow it."
"So, I'm a... a point of honor?" She almost laughed. It was so medieval. So cold. "Not a person. A symbol."
"Tonight, you became both," he said, his voice dropping lower. "The person is in danger. The symbol cannot be allowed to fall. So, we adapt. We move faster."
"Faster, how?"
"The narrative needs to be cemented. A press conference. Tomorrow. We will announce our engagement formally, with you by my side. We will show a united, impenetrable front. We will make it clear to Viktor, and to everyone watching, that you are not a lever he can pull. You are a part of my foundation. To touch you is to declare war on me, not to negotiate with me."
A press conference. More lies. More cameras. More performance. The thought made her sick. "And that will stop him? A press conference?"
"No," Luca said, a grim, almost feral smile touching his lips. It was the most real expression she'd seen from him, and it was terrifying. "But it will force his hand into the open. It will turn his covert threat into an open challenge. And I am prepared for a challenge. He is not prepared for me to fight back over a 'fragile ornament.'"
He was using her as bait. As a flag to draw Viktor into a fight. The realization was a cold shock. She was a pawn being pushed forward to provoke the king.
"And what happens to the pawn when the kings fight?" she asked, her voice trembling now.
He stepped closer. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat of him, the intensity of his gaze. "The pawn stays behind the king's line. Protected. You will have a security detail with you at all times. You will not leave this building without me. Your every move will be watched. You are now the most protected person in this city."
Protected. Trapped. The words meant the same thing here. She was being sealed in a vault.
"And the bakery?" The words were a desperate grasp for her old life, for the reason she was doing this.
"The transfer of the deed is being finalized. It will be in your name, free and clear, by the end of the week. I keep my deals, Elara."
Of course he did. The deal was the only thing holding this nightmare together. He got his fake fiancée and his point of honor. She got her bricks and mortar. A fair trade.
She looked at the crumpled note in his hand, at the smudge of red. A threat in ink and wine. Her life had been reduced to this: a piece of paper in a war between men.
"Okay," she whispered, the fight gone out of her. "I'll do the press conference."
He gave a single, sharp nod. "Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow begins the real work."
He turned back to the window, dismissing her. She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her.
"Elara."
She turned. He was still looking at the city, his profile sharp against the glass.
"He called you fragile," Luca said, his voice low. "He's wrong. Fragile things don't walk into a carnival and kiss a man like me. Remember that."
It wasn't a comfort. It was a weapon. He was handing her a piece of armor, forged from her own desperation. She didn't want it. But she had no choice.
She left the study, the doors closing softly behind her. The hallway stretched long and empty. She walked back to her beautiful room, her gilded cage, and closed the door.
She leaned against it, sliding to the floor. The crumpled note seemed to burn in her mind. Viktor's threat. Luca's cold strategy. She was caught between a predator who wanted to break her and a king who wanted to use her as a shield.
And tomorrow, she had to stand in front of the world and smile.
She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in them. The tears didn't come. She was too scared, too empty, for tears.
All she had was the deal. The bakery. And the terrifying, hollow strength of a girl who had nothing left to lose.