(Diana's POV)
The first thing I feel is… wrong.
Not pain. Not exactly fear.
Just wrong — like waking up in someone else's skin.
My eyes flutter open, and for a moment, I don't understand what I'm looking at. The ceiling above me is too high, too clean. The sheets are smooth and cold against my skin — not the soft, overwashed cotton from home. There's a faint smell of leather and something sharp, almost metallic.
I bolt upright.
A shock shoots through my skull, blurring my vision for a second, but the panic pushes through anyway.
This isn't my room.
This isn't my bed.
This isn't my—
I yank the blanket up to my chest, my breathing hitching.
What the hell?
My heartbeat starts pounding so loud I feel it in my throat. Everything around me looks expensive, unfamiliar — the kind of place only rich people, or dangerous people, live in. The lighting is dim. The curtains are heavy. The room feels… too quiet, like it's waiting for me to understand something I don't.
Then everything comes back in a messy rush.
The van.
The hand grabbing me.
The cold eyes watching me.
His voice.
My stomach flips violently.
"Oh my God," I whisper, hands shaking. "Oh my—"
The door opens.
I freeze.
He steps into the room like he's been standing outside the whole time.
Alessio.
The man who took me.
His expression is flat, unreadable, too calm for someone who literally kidnapped me. His dark shirt sleeves are rolled up, his jaw tense, his eyes cold blue that made my body shut down.
He doesn't close the door gently — he pushes it back with a quiet click that somehow sounds final.
My grip on the blanket tightens until my knuckles ache.
He looks at me.
Not with pity.
Not with anger.
Just… assesses me, like he's checking if I'm functional.
"You're awake."
His voice gives nothing, no emotion, no softness.
I feel something in my chest twist painfully.
"What the hell is going on?" My voice cracks embarrassingly, but I don't care. "Where am I? Why are you doing this? Where's my family?"
He blinks once. Slowly.
Like my panic is inconvenient.
"Breathe," he says simply.
"I am breathing— I think— I don't—"
My voice breaks.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to stop it from tightening.
Alessio sighs.
Not dramatically — but like he's used to people panicking near him and it annoys him.
"You're safe," he says.
"Safe?" I choke out. "I—I woke up in a strange room. After you kidnapped me. This isn't— this— fuck—" My hands are shaking so badly I have to grip the blanket to steady them.
He watches me silently for a moment before speaking again.
"You fainted," he says. "It happens."
"It— happens?" I stare at him. "People faint after being abducted? That's— that's normal to you?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"Usually they scream first."
"What the—"
I stop myself from cussing harder because I'm pretty sure he'd enjoy the reaction.
My heart is still racing.
My thoughts feel scrambled, too loud, too fast.
Nothing makes sense.
"I need to go home," I say, voice cracking. "Please. Please just tell me what you want. I'll cooperate. Just let me go—"
"No."
The word drops like a stone.
I flinch.
His gaze sharpens.
"You're not going home."
My lungs seize.
"Why? Why me? Who even are you people?"
For the first time, he hesitates. Just slightly.
No explanation.
No last name.
No reason.
He steps toward the wardrobe, opens it, pulls out folded clothes.
"Put these on."
I stare at him, horrified.
"For what?"
"My father wants to talk to you."
"My— your— what?"
My voice hits a higher pitch.
"He wants to— what? Why would he want to talk to me? I don't know him. I don't know you. I don't know anyone here!"
"You will," he says simply, closing the wardrobe.
"What the hell does that mean?"
He ignores the question.
Instead, he turns toward the door. His hand rests on the knob for a moment before he looks back at me.
His expression is colder now.
Harder.
Unwavering.
"Get dressed," he says quietly.
"And don't try anything stupid."
Something about the way he says it makes chills run down my spine.
He opens the door halfway, pauses, and says without looking at me:
"You're not going to die today."
Then he leaves.
And I'm left staring at the door, heart racing, lungs shaking, wishing I believed him.
The hallway outside my room is colder than the bedroom, like the walls are holding onto winter. Alessio is already there, standing with his back to me, hands in his pockets, posture too straight to be relaxed.
He turns when he hears the door open.
His eyes drag over me once—quick, assessing, unreadable. No flicker of approval or satisfaction. Just a look that confirms I'm present and conscious enough to walk.
"Come," he says simply.
No impatience.
No irritation.
Just a command he expects to be followed.
My feet feel heavy as I step out. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds too much like finality. I keep a few steps behind him, not because he asked me to but because being closer feels unsafe.
The corridor is long, dim, lined with dark wood panels and old paintings whose subjects stare down at me with cold, unfamiliar eyes. There's no sound except our footsteps. The silence doesn't feel peaceful. It feels deliberate.
Alessio moves like he's memorized every corner of this place. His shoulders don't tense. His pace doesn't shift. He doesn't check if I'm keeping up. He just expects I will.
My breath catches in my throat. I force myself to exhale quietly.
One step.
Then another.
Just stay upright.
He doesn't slow down, but without turning, he says, low and even:
"You'll need to keep breathing."
I freeze for half a second. The words aren't gentle, but they aren't mocking either. They're… practical. Like he's stating a requirement.
I swallow hard and force more air into my lungs.
He continues walking.
We reach a staircase, grand and wide, the kind that belongs in old mansions and nightmares. I hesitate at the top. My fingers brush the railing, trying to ground myself.
Alessio stops two steps down.
He doesn't turn around.
"If you stop again, I'm carrying you."
His voice is soft, almost flat. Not a threat. A simple outcome.
My heart stutters.
I grip the railing tighter and make myself follow. Each step creaks faintly beneath my weight — soft, but loud enough to echo in my chest.
At the bottom, the air shifts again. Colder. Heavier. My body tenses on instinct.
He turns left, and I follow automatically, fear pushing me forward.
The hall opens into a long corridor. Two men in black stand at the far end near a pair of tall double doors. They don't move. They don't blink. They watch me like I'm something suspicious that accidentally wandered into their world.
My feet stop moving.
Alessio notices instantly.
He turns slightly, one eyebrow lowering—not confused, not annoyed. Just… aware that my fear has overtaken my ability to function.
"What is it?" he asks quietly.
"I…" My throat tightens. "I don't know what's behind that door."
"And staying here won't change that."
There's no softness in his voice — but no cruelty either. Just calm, steady certainty that feels completely foreign in contrast to the storm inside me.
I shake my head once, barely.
"I'm scared."
"I know."
The words are quiet.
Not dismissive.
Not sympathetic.
A fact, spoken with unsettling clarity.
For a second, our eyes meet. His gaze is steady, unwavering, like he's measuring whether fear will paralyze me or push me.
He steps closer, but not enough to touch. Just close enough that his presence blocks the rest of the hallway, anchoring me in place.
"You're walking," he says, low. "That's all you need to do."
Something in his tone clips through my panic.
Not reassurance.
Not comfort.
Direction.
I take a breath.
Then another.
My legs feel too thin beneath me, like they might give out, but they move.
The guards open the doors when Alessio approaches. The hinges groan softly, revealing a dim, cavernous room filled with shadows and cold air.
I freeze just inside the threshold.
Alessio steps through without hesitation, not looking back until he's a few feet ahead.
His voice drops.
"Diana."
My heart jumps.
"You're fine," he says. Not warmly. Not gently. Just firmly enough to cut through the worst of my panic.
I don't believe him…
but I follow.
The doors shut behind us with a deep, echoing thud.
My stomach sinks.
Whatever happens next…
there's no going back.
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