(Aria's POV)
I had always prided myself on being prepared. Cybersecurity assignments at 2 a.m.? Check. Midterms with impossible deadlines? Check. Even Matteo's cheating—I had handled it with style.
But nothing could have prepared me for this.
I sat across from Lucien Moretti in his office. Glass walls. Marble floors. Rain started pattering lightly against the windows, though the city below was bustling as if nothing had happened.
He didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, staring. Not blinking. Not flinching.
"I want to go home," I said again. My voice was firmer this time, because panic was turning into defiance.
He didn't respond. His gray eyes didn't soften. They didn't betray anything.
"You misunderstand," he finally said, his tone smooth as silk but edged with steel. "Home is not an option."
I swallowed. "Not an option? What do you mean?"
He stepped closer, measured, deliberate. My pulse spiked. Every nerve in my body screamed danger.
"You're connected to crimes you didn't commit. Money moved in your name. Accounts registered. Corporations in your identity. All traced back to you."
"I—I don't even know what you're talking about!" I shouted, frustrated. "I didn't do anything. This has nothing to do with me!"
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed his face. Annoyance? Recognition? Maybe both.
"You think I care why you're angry?" he asked, voice low, almost teasing. "I don't. What matters is that you are in my world now."
My stomach twisted. My world? No. My life was supposed to be safe. My college. My friends. My code. Not some… mafia fortress with a man who could kill me without a second thought.
I stood abruptly. "This is illegal! You can't do this. I'm going to the police!"
His expression sharpened. One corner of his mouth lifted into a dangerous half-smile.
"Go ahead," he said softly. "But if you step outside, every organization tracing the accounts you think you're innocent from will assume you are guilty. And you will die before I even hear you scream."
The blood drained from my face.
I had wanted to fight. I had wanted to argue.
Now I just… froze.
Then he pushed a folder toward me. The paper inside gleamed with official-looking text. A contract. My name printed on it. Aria Reyes.
"You will stay in my control until this is resolved," he said. "It is temporary. One year maximum. Violate it, and—" He leaned closer, letting his voice drop to a deadly whisper. "—I will burn the world before I let you leave."
I froze again. The same words he had said before, only now fully real, fully binding.
"I… I can't," I whispered, shaking my head. "This is insane. You can't just trap me here!"
He smirked, the smirk of a man who had never been challenged and never lost. "Insane is calling me insane while standing in my office."
I took a deep breath. I had been trained my whole life to face problems. This was the ultimate problem.
"Fine," I said, gripping the edge of the desk.
"If I sign it, you're saying this doesn't mean I did anything wrong?"
He shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do. What matters is that you survive."
I swallowed hard. Survival. The word felt heavy. Personal. Terrifying.
"Then I sign," I said, my hand trembling as I gripped the pen.
He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just watched me. Studied me. And that gaze… it was not admiration. Not respect. Not anything I could name.
It was calculation. Assessment. Obsession hiding behind control.
I finished signing. My fingers felt cold. My stomach twisted. My mind screamed for me to run. But I knew—he had made sure that running wasn't an option.
He finally leaned back, arms folded, eyes still fixed on me. "Good. Now understand something, Aria Reyes."
I swallowed. "Yes?"
"Every step you take from this point forward will be watched. Every word you speak will be measured. Every move you make will determine whether you survive or not."
I forced a laugh. "Sounds… reassuring."
His gaze hardened. "Do not joke."
I wanted to ask more questions, but the words caught in my throat. I realized: I was trapped in his world. And I didn't even understand it.
For the first time, I saw a flicker of his past, though he didn't say it. The faint hesitation when I mentioned wanting to go home. The tension in his jaw when I argued with him. The way his eyes lingered on me—longer than necessary.
I didn't know it yet. But I had triggered him.
And I was caught in the crossfire.
I wanted to be angry at him. I wanted to scream, to resist, to prove I was not a pawn. But as I looked into those gray eyes, I realized something terrifying: I had just become part of a game I couldn't understand.
And the man holding the strings?
He wasn't just dangerous.
He was Lucien Moretti.
The devil himself.
And he was only just beginning.