Monte Valenti – 6:43 PM
Pulse Weekly Publishing, Editorial Wing
Serena Alessi sat at her desk like a woman waiting to be executed.
The glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows across her tired face, fingers frozen above the keyboard. Her blouse clung to her skin-still slightly damp from nervous sweat-and the voice memo she'd just replayed for the fifth time only made it worse.
"Be careful what truths you chase. Some of them bite."
Ciro D'Aragon's voice echoed in her ears like a curse, velvet-wrapped steel-calm, deliberate, and crawling with unspoken danger.
Her stomach twisted.
Miriam wanted the piece tonight. Her deadline wasn't a suggestion-it was a blade.
But her screen was still blank.
All she had was a headline she'd typed in a haze of panic:
"The Alpha in Armani: Ciro D'Aragon Declares His Reign"
Ugh. Trash.
She backspaced the whole thing.
"Come on, Serena," she muttered under her breath. "Get it together. You've written exposés on cheating novelists and crooked book fair organizers. You can handle one creepy mafia CEO with movie star cheekbones and god-complex energy-"
Her phone buzzed violently on the desk.
MIRIAM:
Report. Now. Clock's ticking. I don't care if he hypnotized you with his cologne. Write something or you're fired. 💋
She groaned and let her forehead drop onto the keyboard.
Somewhere across the bullpen, someone laughed. Probably at a meme. Probably living a life with less existential dread.
"God, I hate my job," she muttered.
Another message pinged in.
This time?
Mercy.
RUBY [Best Friend / Chaos Goblin]:
🍷 drinks. now. you look like you've been emotionally manhandled by a wolf in a three-piece suit.
SERENA:
Not inaccurate.
RUBY:
One hour. Same bar. I'm ordering nachos and tequila. Be there or I'm telling your mom you're writing about criminals again.
Serena snorted despite herself.
Ruby knew everything-well, almost everything. Not the part where Serena's knees had literally gone weak when Ciro leaned in. Not the part where her pulse spiked every time she thought about him.
But the important stuff? Yeah. Ruby knew.
She looked back at the screen.
Still blank.
Still impossible.
She shut the laptop, slung her bag over her shoulder, and made the healthiest choice she'd made all week.
She left.
7:54 PM
The Thirsty Fox, Midtown
The Thirsty Fox was dim, loud, and blessedly indifferent to fashion standards or journalistic collapse. The bartender didn't even blink when Ruby ordered two tequila flights and an extra plate of lime wedges.
"Drink," Ruby demanded, pushing a glass into Serena's hand. "You look like you got spiritually undressed by a Bond villain."
Serena choked on her shot.
"I did not get undressed," she coughed. "Spiritually or otherwise."
Ruby raised a brow. "You're stammering. You only stammer when something deeply unprofessional happened."
Serena picked at the rim of her glass. "He... just has a presence."
"Oh, honey," Ruby said, sitting back like a judge about to deliver a verdict. "Presence is a scented candle. That man is a religious experience with a death toll."
Serena laughed-actually laughed-and let herself sink into the moment.
It felt good. Normal.
And yet...
That night clung to her like wet fabric. That interview. Those gold eyes. The way he said her name like he was tasting it.
Ruby narrowed her eyes. "You're thinking about him again."
"I'm thinking about how to survive this article without losing my job."
"Liar."
Serena groaned and took another shot.
9:27 PM
Three drinks in, Serena was feeling human again. Her brain was still buzzing, but the panic had dulled into a slow, spicy throb behind her eyes.
"I mean... he's dangerous, right?" she asked aloud, more to the ceiling than to Ruby. "I should not be attracted to that. That's a red flag. That's a flaming red flag wrapped around a machete."
Ruby nodded sagely. "But a hot machete."
"Exactly!" Serena threw her arms up. "That's the problem! He's terrifying. He told me not to chase truths that bite. Who even says that? What am I supposed to do with that kind of quote?"
"Put it on a throw pillow," Ruby suggested. "Or use it as the intro for your story and win yourself a Pulitzer."
Serena blinked. "...It is a great intro, isn't it?"
"Journalist of the year, baby."
She pulled out her phone, thumbed a few notes into her draft app.
Opening line idea:
Ciro D'Aragon warned me with a smile. "Be careful what truths you chase," he said. "Some of them bite."
Chills. Again.
Not fear.
Not quite.
She took another sip. Thought about the way the room had fallen silent when he approached her. The way the wolf in his voice paced just under the surface.
"You know," Serena said slowly, "it's not just him. It's the whole thing. The manor. The way they all looked at him. Like he was something ancient."
"Like a god?"
Serena hesitated. Then nodded.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Exactly like that."
11:01 PM
Serena's Apartment, Northside
She kicked her heels off the second she walked in, dropped her bag on the floor, and collapsed onto her couch with the grace of a dying star.
Her head was spinning.
The tequila helped.
The conversation helped more.
But the anxiety? Still there.
The D'Aragon article had to go in tonight or Miriam would make good on her promise to destroy her career in six different cities.
She cracked open the laptop again. A blank page stared back.
And this time?
She didn't hesitate.
Her fingers flew.
Ciro D'Aragon doesn't command a room. He devours it.
He walks like a man who owns the ground he stands on, and speaks like he's already calculated ten moves past whatever you're about to say.
Some call him the last son of two warring houses. Others call him the wolf-king in silk. But here's what I know for sure: when he looks at you, the part of you that tells the truth starts to tremble.
She paused. Breathed.
Then kept going.
It wasn't just an article anymore.
It was a map.
A warning.
And a dare.
1:03 AM
D'Aragon Manor – East Wing
Ciro stood at the massive window of his private study, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, scars catching the moonlight like stories.
Rafaelo entered silently, pausing a few feet behind him.
"She's writing," Rafaelo said without being asked. "Just filed it to her editor."
Ciro nodded.
"Anything... concerning?" he asked.
"She left out the killings. Softened the succession narrative. Called you 'a force of nature wrapped in Armani.'"
Ciro actually chuckled.
"She's smart."
"She's bold," Rafaelo corrected. "That's different."
Ciro looked out over the city, golden eyes reflec
ting the glass like twin fires.
"She's both," he said. "And that makes her dangerous."
Rafaelo hesitated. "You want her silenced?"
Ciro turned his head, slow. Calm. Decisive.
"No," he said. "Not yet."