With a heavy, almost painful flutter, her eyelids peeled open, revealing a world of opulent strangeness.
The room was a study in stark wealth—crimson bedspread, heavy velvet curtains, and the subtle glint of polished mahogany. A low, amused voice cut through the hazy silence.
"It seems you're finally gracing us with your presence."
She turned her head slowly, the motion a struggle against the ache in her body. A man sat in a leather armchair, watching her with the predatory stillness of a panther. His dark eyes held a dangerous glint, and a faint, almost cruel smile played on his lips.
She tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed down on her shoulder—a gesture that was more command than comfort. He held a glass of water to her lips, and as she drank, their gazes locked. She studied his face, memorizing every chiseled line and hard angle, as if etching a portrait in her mind. A sharp pang in her shoulder reminded her of a pain she couldn't yet place.
"Who are you?" she rasped, the words thick with confusion. "And what am I doing here?"
A mocking laugh escaped him.
"Who am I? Is that truly a question you'd ask your husband? Let's rephrase. Who are you? And who, pray tell, sent you?"
"W-w-w-woah, hold on," she stammered, her voice rising in disbelief. "What is this nonsense about my husband? Who sent me? I don't know you, man! I was just kidnapped by some pervert, and now you're spouting this… this garbage."
The air in the room grew thick with menace. Luca's hand moved with chilling speed, and the cold, metallic press of a pistol settled against her temple.
"Listen, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't know who you are or who you work for, but you're going to explain—right now—how you came to have my signature and my seal on a document that makes you my wife."
He held up a folded piece of paper. She stared at it, her heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words were a blur, but the symbols were unmistakable. A marriage contract.
"I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I swea—"
The words caught in her throat. A flicker of a memory, hazy and disjointed, flashed in her mind. A forgotten moment, a careless act. Words spilled from her lips before she could stop them.
"Unless… that day…"
The pressure of the gun intensified, as if it were a drill boring into her skull.
"Unless what? Speak, before I lose my patience."
She swallowed a dry lump in her throat.
"How can a person speak when a man is trying to drill his pistol into their head?"
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He lowered the gun, a look of grudging respect in his eyes.
"Fine, fine. You can't run anywhere with a wound like that anyway. Go on. Tell me your story."
He paused, suspicion flickering once more.
"By the way… were you at the Purple Wedding Hall on the third of this month?"
She hesitated. "What's it to you?"
A small, triumphant smile touched her lips.
"So it was you. The groom whose bride ran off and left him standing at the altar. I was there."
A vein throbbed in his forehead as he fought to contain his rage, the bitter sting of public humiliation burning fresh again.
"And what does that have to do with this? Were you a guest?"
"A guest? No. I'm a decorator. When the wedding was over, I was cleaning up. I saw your signed marriage contract, but the bride's side was blank. So—for a laugh—I filled it out. Honestly, I completely forgot the hall sends the contracts to the city administration. It must have been a mistake. We can get a divorce. It was all a joke."
A humorless smile twisted his lips.
"Forgive me, but how old do I look?"
"You look to be in your twenties," she said, voice steady despite her fear.
"Good." His tone dropped to a growl of pure impatience.
He raised the gun and fired. The bullet whizzed past her ear, so close she felt the displaced air, and a sharp crack echoed as it buried itself in the wall behind her.
"Do I look eight years old to you? Do you honestly think I'd believe such a ridiculous story? A decorator, you say? We'll see what we find out about that."
He turned, striding toward the door with purpose. But he never made it.
A sickening thud echoed through the room. A warm, crimson line trickled down his forehead. He touched the wound, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He looked at her one last time before the darkness claimed him.
"You…"
She stood over him, clutching the shattered remains of a porcelain vase. A triumphant smirk curved her lips.
"Nobody threatens me, you bastard."
Pain seared her shoulder, but adrenaline drove her. She snatched his jacket and weapon, then vanished into the mansion's corridors.
The sprawling halls twisted like a maze. Injured and dressed in nothing but a nightgown, she moved like a phantom, silent and swift. Strangely, the estate was scarcely guarded, as if its master had no enemies to fear. Within minutes, she scaled the outer wall and melted into the shadowed sanctuary of the woods.
But a new, urgent pain flared in her hand. Blood dripped freely. She tried to hide the crimson trail in the dirt, but each step left its mark.
---
Meanwhile, back in the lavish bedroom, Enzo and a doctor found Luca unconscious on the floor.
"Damn it, Luca! Get up!" Enzo barked, slapping his friend's face. "The girl—she's gone!"
Luca's eyes flickered open. He glanced at the empty bed and let out a wry, mocking laugh.
"That vixen. I can't believe she hit me with a vase."
Enzo's lip curled. "A vase? Seriously? You were taken down by a vase? Pathetic."
A storm of fury burned in Luca's eyes.
"How about I try it on you? See if you're immune."
The doctor tended to Luca's wound quickly.
"Enzo, find her. Now."
"Should I bring her back?"
"No," Luca growled. His voice was low, dangerous. "I'll go get my runaway wife myself."
Enzo threw up his hands. "God, have mercy. His insanity is enough, but now he wants a crazy woman for a wife? I hope she kills you and puts me out of my misery."
Luca laughed, cold and hard.
"You're just jealous I'm married."
---
Her steps grew heavier as the forest stretched on, endless and oppressive. Finally, she stumbled through the trees and out onto a highway.
She stood in the middle of the road, a desperate figure waving for help. A pair of headlights cut through the dark. Relief flickered in her chest—until the car stopped.
A police cruiser.
"Ma'am, put your weapon on the ground!" the officer commanded.
She glanced down at the pistol in her hand and let out a bitter, ironic laugh. Of all the people to run into, it had to be the police.
The officer cuffed her roughly and shoved her into the back of the car. She was treated in the prison's hospital wing, then sent directly to a cell.
"You'll be held until your lawyer arrives," a guard informed her. "Charged with possession of an illegal firearm."
She sank onto the cold cot, exhaustion pulling her under. The blood loss, the stress, the adrenaline—it all crashed down at once. She drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
But the screech of the cell door wrenched her awake.
"Get up. Your bail has been paid."
Blinking, she sat up, confusion washing over her. "I'm leaving? Wait… who paid my bail?"
At the end of the hall stood a tall, imposing figure. Green eyes fixed on her, sharp and triumphant. His smile was slow, cruel, inevitable.
"I've come to take you home, my wife," Luca said, his voice smooth and dangerous as silk. "Let's go."