The air in that office went still when the door shut behind us.
My father's hand lingered heavy on my shoulder, guiding me forward, but my feet barely moved. Because the man behind that massive mahogany desk wasn't a stranger.
It was him.
The man from the alley.
The one whose shadow had stalked me long after I ran.
The one who had told me I'd step into his world.
Damian DeLuca.
He looked different here, less predator in the dark, more king on his throne. A tailored suit clung to him like it was stitched onto his skin, black on black, his tie knotted with precision. The kind of wealth that didn't scream, but whispered: untouchable.
And yet his eyes were the same. Cold, sharp, gleaming with recognition the moment they landed on me.
My throat closed. My chest burned. I couldn't look away.
"This is my daughter, Aria," my father said, voice rough but steady. "She'll be working for you, as agreed."
Damian's gaze slid to him, just for a second, then back to me. "I see."
Nothing more. Just that. But it dripped with meaning only I could hear.
I wanted to scream at my father. To drag him out. To tell him what kind of man he was handing me to. But my tongue wouldn't move. My heart beat too loud in my ears.
"Marco."
The sound snapped through me. My father stiffened at the sound of his name, spoken without a title, without respect.
Marco.
No one called him that. Not like this. My father was a man who commanded respect in our neighborhood, who people nodded to when he walked by. Yet here, in this place, he was reduced to just… Marco.
Damian leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've brought me what I asked for."
My father cleared his throat, his hand falling from my shoulder. "She's hardworking. She'll do what's needed."
I wanted to laugh, hardworking? Was I supposed to scrub away the blood I knew lingered beneath this man's expensive shoes?
Damian ignored the words. His eyes never left me.
"So," he murmured, low enough that it was meant for me, not my father. "You finally caught up with me."
Heat surged into my face. My chest knotted.
Beside me, my father shifted. I didn't need words to read the confusion etched in his features, the way his brows pulled tight, the flick of his eyes between us.
Damian caught it. Of course he did.
And his smirk deepened. "She knows."
Two words. That was all it took.
Not an explanation. Not even a lie.
A weapon.
Because now my father's silence pressed against my skin harder than any question could.
My father signed whatever papers they shoved in front of him, his pen scratching against the page like he was carving out the last of his dignity. When it was done, he stood to leave, his posture rigid, his hand twitching for control he no longer had.
"Wait," Damian's voice halted him mid-stride. My father froze, wary, pride bristling. Damian reached into his pocket, peeled off a few bills, and tossed them onto the table.
"Use that," he said coolly. "Consider it an advance. You'll need it more than me."
The confusion in my father's eyes was almost painful to watch. He swallowed, stiffened, and without a word, turned away.
I didn't follow. I couldn't. My feet felt glued to the polished floor until Damian's shadow slid closer. His expression was unreadable when he jerked his chin at one of the men lingering near the door.
"Show her to her room."
The words were simple, but they rang like a verdict.
One of the men, broad-shouldered, silent, carrying the weight of loyalty in his eyes, motioned for me to follow. I trailed him down a long corridor, my fingers brushing the cold banister of a staircase that seemed to wind forever. The air smelled faintly of tobacco and cedar, heavy with a kind of silence that wasn't empty, but watchful.
When the door swung open, I stepped into a space that was stark yet elegant. A bed neatly made. A dresser against the wall. A small wardrobe that already held folded clothes waiting for me. Waiting, as if they had known I was coming.
A neat bundle was tossed onto the bed, black trousers, a crisp white blouse, plain but sharp. Uniform. Not a suggestion, but an instruction.
I slipped into it, the fabric stiff against my skin, then stared at myself in the mirror. I didn't look like Ara anymore. I looked like someone else, someone who belonged to this place, even if I didn't want to.
When I stepped out again, Damian wasn't waiting. The man who had brought me only nodded once before leaving me standing in the hallway, directionless.
That was how it began.
Weeks bled into each other after that. A month passed, then two, and I found myself mapping the rhythms of a house that never truly slept. The chef, a gruff man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, ruled the kitchen. The guards came and went like shifting shadows, never saying much, but always watching. There were maids, two young women who whispered to each other in corners, their laughter brief, quickly smothered when footsteps echoed too close.
And then there was me.
I wasn't the cook, though I cleaned up after meals. I wasn't a servant, though I scrubbed floors until my fingers ached. I was something in between a presence, a shadow pressed into usefulness, molded into the shape Damian wanted.
Each day began early, ended late. Polishing glass tables that never seemed to collect dust. Folding suits that smelled faintly of expensive cologne. Carrying stacks of files between his study and the living room, though I was never allowed to peek at their contents. Always busy, yet always on edge, as though the walls themselves were listening.
And sometimes, I'd catch him watching me.
Not often, but enough to set my nerves ablaze. Passing through the corridor, a glass of wine in his hand, eyes lingering longer than they should. Sitting at the dining table while I cleared plates, his silence sharper than any blade. Once, I felt the weight of his gaze on my back as I bent to wipe the marble floor; when I turned, he didn't look away.
But the encounters weren't always silent.
One evening, as I set a tray down in his study, I felt his voice slice through the quiet.
"You walk like you're afraid of being heard," Damian said without looking up from his papers.
I froze. "I…I didn't mean…."
"Don't apologize." His eyes lifted to mine, sharp, unreadable. "Fear is louder than footsteps."
The words lodged under my skin, heavy, confusing. By the time I blinked, he was already dismissing me with a flick of his hand, like I was nothing. Like I was everything.
Another time, I reached for the stack of files on his desk, and his hand caught mine. Just for a second, too brief to call it more, too deliberate to call it less. His fingers released me slowly, his gaze holding me longer than his touch.
"You learn quickly," he murmured. "That's good."
My throat went dry. I wanted to ask good for what? But my body betrayed me, stumbling out of the room before the question could slip free.
It was in those moments I realized something chilling: it wasn't my father's debt that tethered me to this place. It wasn't even the endless chores or the unspoken rules.
It was him.
Damian wasn't just watching me. He was waiting.
And every night, as I lay on the too-neat bed in that too-silent room, one thought gnawed at me.
He hadn't saved me.
He had claimed me.