The morning light bled softly into the room, brushing against the heavy curtains. I had barely slept, my mind replaying last night in the secret room—the photograph, the letters, the fleeting crack in his armor. But morning was different. Morning was steel and coldness, and Don Luca was no longer the man who had let me glimpse his heart.
He sat at the dining table, perfectly groomed in his tailored suit, sipping espresso like a king surveying his empire. I walked in, my chin held higher than I felt.
"Good morning, Mrs. Luca," he said, voice smooth, eyes unreadable.
"Don't call me that," I snapped.
His brow arched slightly. "Why not? It's your name now."
"It's a name you forced on me."
He set down the cup slowly, deliberately. "Everything in this house is mine. Including you."
I crossed my arms. "Then maybe you should get used to disappointment, because I'm not the obedient little wife you think I'll be."
His lips twitched with a hint of amusement. "Obedience isn't what I expect. Control is."
"Then we have a problem," I said sharply.
"Do we?" His voice was calm, but his eyes glinted like dark steel. "Because last night, in my mother's room, you didn't look very defiant."
Heat crept up my neck. "That was different."
"Was it?" He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "You leaned in. You didn't pull away."
I clenched my fists. "You caught me off guard."
"Or," he said, standing now, every inch of him radiating quiet menace, "you wanted to be caught."
My pulse jumped. "You're arrogant."
"And you're lying to yourself."
I turned sharply toward the window, needing distance. "You don't get to tell me what I feel."
His footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, until he stood just behind me. "Then show me," he whispered. "Show me you hate me. Show me you can walk out that door without looking back."
I spun around to face him. "Don't tempt me."
"Then why are you still here?"
The silence between us was a taut wire, threatening to snap.
"Because you won't let me leave," I hissed.
"Correction—" he brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch too intimate, too dangerous, "—because part of you doesn't want to."
I smacked his hand away. "You think everything's a game."
"It is a game," he said softly. "The only difference is, I never lose."
I glared at him. "Then maybe you've never played against me."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Careful, sweetheart. You're starting to sound like you want to challenge me."
"Maybe I do."
"Then let's play."
My breath caught. "What?"
He stepped back, giving me space, but his presence was still suffocating. "You want control? Prove you can handle it. Tonight, at dinner, the choice will be yours. Sit beside me as my wife, willingly… or walk away from the table, and I'll release you."
My heart skipped. "Release me?"
"Yes," he said smoothly. "No chains. No guards. You can walk out of this mansion and never look back."
Suspicion churned in me. "And what's the catch?"
He tilted his head. "The catch is simple. If you sit beside me, you accept that you belong to me. Fully. No more running, no more bargaining."
I swallowed hard. "And you'd actually let me go?"
"I keep my word." His eyes locked on mine. "Do you?"
I hated how my chest tightened, how my body betrayed me. "You're twisting everything."
"No, I'm clarifying it," he said. "You've been running in circles, pretending you want freedom when what you really want is power. The problem is, you can't have both."
"And you think you can?"
"I already do."
I took a step forward, angrily burning hot. "You think control is love. It's not."
"And you think rebellion is freedom," he countered, lowering his voice. "It's not."
The words sliced between us, too close to truths I didn't want to admit.
"You're impossible," I muttered.
"And you're intoxicating," he said with a quiet intensity that made me stumble inside. "That's why this game matters."
I shook my head. "You're insane if you think I'll ever belong to you."
He smiled faintly, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "We'll see tonight."
The hours dragged until evening, the mansion buzzing with quiet preparations. My nerves were raw, my thoughts tangled. At dinner, the long mahogany table stretched endlessly, candles flickering against crystal glasses. He sat at the head, waiting.
I entered slowly, heart pounding.
"You're late," he said coolly.
"I was deciding whether to come at all."
His gaze traveled over me, sharp but lingering. "And yet… here you are."
I sat, not beside him but at the opposite end of the table.
His jaw tightened. "Interesting choice."
"You said it was my decision."
"And you've made it," he said evenly, pouring himself wine. "But tell me, do you feel freer over there?"
I lifted my chin. "I feel like myself."
He sipped slowly, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Then why do your hands tremble?"
I quickly folded them in my lap. "They don't."
"They do," he said softly, setting his glass down. "Because every part of you wants to be closer, and the farther you sit, the more you feel the distance."
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" He leaned back, eyes fixed on me. "Look at you. Even now, you're thinking about last night. About how close I was. About how much closer I could have been."
I snapped, "You don't own my thoughts."
His smile was slow, knowing. "Not yet."
I stood suddenly, my chair scraping. "I won't play your game."
"But you already are," he said quietly. "Every time you argue, every time you fight me, you give me more of yourself. You just don't see it yet."
"I'll never give you what you want."
He rose, moving toward me with steady strides until we were nearly chest-to-chest. "You already are, sweetheart," he whispered. "Piece by piece."
My pulse raced, and for one reckless second, I hated how much I wanted to close the distance.
"You're a monster," I whispered.
"Maybe," he said, eyes burning into mine. "But I'm your monster now."
The game had shifted again, and though I wanted to scream, I knew deep down I was already playing by his rules.