The silence in the mansion felt heavier than before, as if every wall was listening — watching — waiting.
Elena sat by the window, her mind lost in a storm of thoughts. She still couldn't erase the memory of Lorenzo's voice, that cold possessiveness when he said she was his. She didn't understand it — or maybe she didn't want to. Because something inside her trembled, and it wasn't just fear anymore.
Hours passed, the sky turned gold, then gray. She didn't know how long she had been staring outside when a sharp knock echoed against her door.
It opened before she could answer.
"Get ready," Lorenzo's deep voice filled the room. "The car leaves in one hour."
She turned around, startled. "For what?"
"For the party," he said, buttoning the cuff of his black shirt with precise, almost careless movements. "I expect you to be ready."
Her brow furrowed. "What party?"
He looked at her briefly, his expression unreadable. "A gathering. Business."
Her tone hardened. "Business? You mean the kind of business where people bleed, cry, and die for your power?"
He didn't flinch. "You talk too much, Elena."
"Because someone needs to," she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. "Why would you want me there, with people like you?"
He took a step closer, his presence swallowing the air between them. "Because," he said quietly, "you belong to me. And people will know it."
Her stomach twisted at his words. She wanted to yell, to tell him she didn't belong to anyone — but her throat betrayed her. The way he said it, calm and final, made her heartbeat uneven.
Lorenzo turned to leave. "Be ready in eight minutes."
"Wait," she said quickly. "I don't have anything to wear."
He paused, then turned his head slightly. "That's not my problem."
She crossed her arms. "Then I'm not going."
For a brief moment, she thought he might argue. Instead, he took out his phone, spoke a few words in Italian she couldn't understand, and moments later, the door opened. A maid stepped in — young, timid, and clearly nervous. Her eyes darted between them, her cheeks flushed.
Elena noticed the way the girl looked at Lorenzo — the quick, shy glances, the way her voice faltered when she said, "S-sir, you called?"
Lorenzo gestured toward Elena without looking at her. "Give her the dress."
The maid nodded and placed a black box on the bed, bowing before quickly leaving the room. Elena watched her go, then muttered under her breath, "Even the maids are shy around the devil."
Lorenzo's lips twitched faintly. "Here," he said, setting the box before her.
She frowned. "You bought me clothes without asking?"
He met her gaze, his voice steady, low. "I don't ask for permission."
And with that, he left the room.
Elena stared at the closed door, anger and confusion swirling in her chest. Who does he think he is? she thought. But curiosity got the better of her. When she opened the box, her breath caught. Inside lay a soft blue dress, shimmering faintly under the dim light — elegant, simple, yet stunning. She touched the fabric, her fingers trembling. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned.
Half an hour later, she stood before the mirror, hardly recognizing herself. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, the color bringing out the light in her eyes. For a moment, she almost felt… powerful.
When the door opened again, Lorenzo stepped in, ready in his black suit, his presence commanding. He started to speak, but the words froze on his tongue. His gaze lingered on her — just a little too long. Something flickered behind those dark eyes, something that looked dangerously close to awe.
She turned away, trying to hide her blush. "What? Never seen a woman in a dress before?"
He looked away sharply, clearing his throat. "Let's go."
The car ride was silent, except for the soft hum of the engine and the pounding of Elena's heart. When they arrived at the party, she was greeted by a sea of glittering chandeliers, laughter, and sin. Men in suits, women in diamonds — predators in disguise.
Lorenzo walked beside her, his hand resting lightly on her back, a silent claim. People parted when he passed, whispering his name like a warning.
Elena felt their eyes on her — curious, judging. She tried to stay calm, to blend into the golden chaos, but she couldn't stop stealing glances at him. The way he moved, confident and cold, drew her in despite everything she hated about him.
He spoke with powerful men, his tone sharp, commanding. She sat quietly at a corner table, sipping water, pretending not to notice how her heart reacted to his presence. Then, a woman — beautiful, confident — approached Lorenzo, placing a manicured hand on his arm. She leaned in, saying something that made her giggle.
Elena's jaw clenched before she even realized it. Why do I care? she asked herself. He's a monster.
And yet, she couldn't look away.
Lorenzo didn't smile at the woman. In fact, his face stayed cold, his eyes flickering — just once — toward Elena.
Their eyes met across the room. For a moment, the noise faded, the people disappeared, and it was just them.
Her breath caught. She looked down quickly, pretending to fix her dress.
Then a man appeared beside her, tall and smug, holding out his hand. "Care for a dance?"
Elena hesitated, trying to be polite. But before she could respond, a familiar voice came from behind her — low, dangerous, and final.
"No. She's with me."
She turned. Lorenzo stood there, his expression unreadable, but his voice sent a shiver down her spine.
The stranger frowned. "Excuse me? I asked her, not you."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "She doesn't dance with anyone but me."
Elena blinked in disbelief. "You can't just—"
But the stranger cut her off, his voice rising. "You think you own her, De Luca? You think you can walk around and claim whoever you want?"
The room grew tense. People stopped talking. Music faded into silence.
Lorenzo tried to turn away, his hand gently reaching for Elena's. "Let's go."
But the man shoved him. "I said I spoke to her!"
The force made Elena stumble and fall to the ground. And that — that was the last straw.
Something snapped inside Lorenzo.
He moved faster than anyone could react, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the marble floor. The sound echoed like thunder. Gasps filled the room as Lorenzo's fist came down once, twice, again — brutal, unrelenting. Blood splattered across his sleeve, but he didn't stop.
"Lorenzo!" someone shouted. "Enough!"
He didn't hear. His rage was pure, violent — almost demonic.
Elena scrambled to her feet, her voice breaking. "Stop!" she cried, running toward him. He didn't respond. She grabbed his arm, her tears falling. "Please… stop! You're going to kill him!"
He froze — her voice slicing through the storm. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Then slowly, he released the man, who collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.
Lorenzo stood, his breath heavy, his knuckles bleeding. He turned to the crowd — his eyes dark with warning.
"No one," he growled, his voice deep and cold, "touches what is mine."
Then he took Elena's trembling hand, guiding her toward the door. She followed in silence, her heart racing. Once outside, the night air hit her face — cool, sharp, real.
She looked up at him, words tangled on her lips. "You didn't have to—"
He looked at her then, and for the first time, she saw it — the war behind his eyes. "Yes," he said softly. "I did."
And when he turned away, she realized something terrifying.
The devil might have saved her tonight…
but her heart was starting to belong to him.