After finishing my bath and washing away the remnants of last night's activities, I stepped out into the cool air of the room, my damp hair cascading down my back like strands of midnight silk. The scent of jasmine soap lingered faintly on my skin, wrapping me in a fleeting comfort that belonged to another world.
Arielle was waiting for me, seated gracefully on the couch, her posture immaculate, her expression warm but composed.
"You're all done," she remarked, her voice calm and efficient.
"Yes, I am," I replied softly, feeling strangely exposed despite the robe that clung to me.
She helped me slip into a white, long-sleeved dress—simple yet elegant, its smooth satin cool against my freshly bathed skin. The gown flowed to my ankles, cinched slightly at the waist, emphasizing my form without excess. When she finished, Arielle smiled faintly and said, "Breakfast is ready. The boss is waiting for you downstairs."
I followed her down a long marble hallway, where golden light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering reflections like liquid fire. The mansion's air was tinged with the scent of polished wood and something darker—old money, quiet power.
At the dining table, he sat as always—Luciano. The morning sun cast a pale halo over him as he read the newspaper, his expression unreadable, his movements measured and precise. His presence alone seemed to command the air itself to still.
I took my place beside him, lowering myself carefully into the chair. He nodded once to the maid, who appeared almost instantly with our breakfast—a feast so extravagant it could have been crafted for royalty.
A seared filet mignon, its surface glistening with butter, rested beside truffle mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus, each stalk gleaming with olive oil. The scent of creamy lobster bisque drifted upward, blending with the sweet promise of molten chocolate cake and vanilla bean ice cream that waited as dessert. A glass of deep crimson wine stood before me, the color of temptation itself.
"You know I paid three million dollars to purchase you," he said casually, without looking up.
My fork paused midair.
"I know," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The money was too much to purchase someone like me. I could—"
The sharp clang of metal on porcelain made me flinch. He had slammed his cutlery down, eyes glinting like molten gold trapped in ice.
"Your job here," he said slowly, every word cold and deliberate, "is to satisfy me. Nothing else."
The authority in his tone left no space for argument.
"O-okay, sir," I whispered, lowering my gaze as he resumed his meal, chewing in perfect, silent rhythm—as if nothing had happened.
A moment later, he motioned to one of the guards. The man approached, carrying a rectangular golden tray, its surface draped with a red and gold embroidered cloth—the kind woven only by royal ateliers. The fabric shimmered under the chandelier light, the intricate patterns of dragons and flames stitched with threads of real gold, symbolizing power and possession.
Upon the tray rested a single black card.
"When you need something or wish to go out, use this," he said. "It's yours."
The guard handed it to me with a bow. The card's surface was sleek, matte black, with the words "Obsidian Syndicate" etched in silver. I felt a chill run through me. I'd seen that name before—years ago, in a whispered conversation, a half-remembered headline, a symbol of danger and dominance.
It wasn't just a credit card. It was power—limitless, untraceable, and deadly.
"You only exist to please me," Luciano continued, his tone quieter now, though infinitely sharper.
"B-but—"
Before I could finish, he reached out, his fingers lifting my chin with unnerving gentleness. His eyes were a storm of cold brown and bronze, filled with an authority that burned through my resolve.
"Don't complain," he said. "Accept what I give you."
My breath caught. "Y-Yes, sir," I stammered, my heartbeat thrumming violently against my ribs.
He leaned back in his chair, indifferent. "From now on, I'll be busy. The guards and maids are at your disposal. They will give you whatever you need."
He spoke without looking up from his plate—as though I were merely another item on his schedule. When the meal ended, he stood, slipped into a tailored black coat handed to him by a guard, and strode out of the mansion without a backward glance.
---
The moment he left, the entire household seemed to breathe differently. The maids moved as if released from invisible tension. Yet their deference toward me was unnerving—they wouldn't let me lift a single object. It felt less like privilege and more like isolation draped in gold.
Arielle stayed by my side, gentle but distant.
"Can I ask you something?" I said at last.
"Go on," she replied.
"Who exactly is he?"
"Who?"
"Luciano," I said.
Her eyes flickered briefly before she answered. "He is the Obsidian Lord. That's all you need to know."
The name struck something in me—a half-memory, a ghost of stories whispered in the dark. I'd heard of the Obsidian Syndicate—a shadowed organization said to control empires from behind silk curtains, feared even by governments. Their leader was a myth, a name spoken only in warning. Death in a tailored suit.
---
Arielle must have noticed my unease, because she suddenly smiled. "Would you like to see more of the mansion, Alena?"
"Yes, please," I replied, forcing a smile of my own.
As we walked, I tried to distract myself with the beauty around me. The mansion radiated restrained luxury—gold accents tracing marble walls, crystal chandeliers dripping light like captured stars, and art pieces that looked too rare to exist outside a museum. In the center of the grand hall stood an obsidian statue—tall, black, and flawless, catching the light like frozen shadow.
It looked almost alive.
---
After touring for hours, I was ready to rest when a peculiar door caught my eye—white wood carved with swirling designs of vines and roses, the handles polished to a mirror shine.
"What's inside?" I asked curiously.
Arielle opened it without hesitation.
The sight stole my breath.
The room looked like a designer showroom—no, a temple of fashion. Gowns from Dior, Versace, and Alexander McQueen lined one side, their silks and chiffons whispering softly in the air. Another wall gleamed with Gucci, Prada, and Balmain jackets, perfectly pressed and arranged by shade. Glass shelves glittered with Louboutin and Jimmy Choo heels, their crystal embellishments catching the light like jewels.
Below them, rows of Hermès and Chanel bags rested in perfect order, their gold clasps gleaming. On the vanity, Cartier, Tiffany, and Bulgari jewelry sparkled beside bottles of Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, and Tom Ford perfumes—the mingling scents of leather, amber, and rose weaving through the air like a rich, hypnotic spell.
"This is your dressing room," Arielle said quietly.
"All this… belongs to me?" I whispered in disbelief.
"Yes."
I turned slowly, my heart pounding. Every piece—every shoe, every silk gown—was my exact size.
It was as if he had known me before.
Arielle helped me try on a deep red Louis Vuitton gown that shimmered under the soft lights. The off-shoulder design framed my collarbones, while threads of gold embroidery traced delicate flames across the fabric.
"It's as if it was made just for you," Arielle said, smiling.
"Thank you," I murmured, staring at my reflection. The girl in the mirror looked nothing like me—she looked like someone who belonged to him.
But as I stood there, surrounded by beauty and wealth beyond comprehension, the question that haunted me refused to fade.
Why had Luciano paid three million dollars for me?
And what did it truly mean to belong to the Obsidian Lord?