The door clicked shut behind him.
Wife.
The word lingered in the air, sharp and unreal, circling her mind like a ghost that refused to fade. Mariluna stood frozen, eyes locked on the empty doorway as her heartbeat slammed wildly in her chest.
He had to be insane.
No… not insane.
Calculated. Every look, every pause, every word he spoke, none of it was impulsive. It was measured. Intentional. He moved like someone who knew exactly how much power he held, and exactly how to wield it.
Mariluna ran her hands through her hair and began pacing across the marble floor, her bare feet silent on the cold surface.
"His wife?" she murmured to herself, disbelief thick in her voice. "What kind of game is this?"
And why her?
What value could she possibly hold anymore? Her family had discarded her. Her name was no longer her own. Her freedom, gone. The girl who once sketched sandcastles with her mother by the sea didn't exist anymore. All that remained was a shell trapped in a mansion, promised to a man who looked at people like property.
Still… he chose her.
Morning came too soon.
She hadn't slept. She'd sat by the window the entire night, arms wrapped around her legs, trying to make sense of it all. A thousand plans ran through her mind. If she played along, pretended, smiled, obeyed, maybe she could find a way to escape. Or maybe earn his trust, just enough to loosen the cage.
But how do you manipulate someone who seems immune to deception?
A knock interrupted her thoughts. This time, the door opened before she could respond. A maid stepped in, her face unreadable.
"You're to bathe. Then come downstairs. Mr. Don is expecting you."
Mariluna didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her body moved on its own, her mind still heavy with the weight of the night. The bathwater smelled of lavender and vanilla, sweet, calming scents, but they clashed with the tension wrapped around her spine. The dress left for her was soft gray, nearly weightless, flowing like silk over her skin. It hugged her in all the right places, elegant and exposed.
She felt like a bird dressed for display.
Lorenzo was already seated in the dining room when she arrived. He wore black, the kind of black that wasn't just dark but absolute, paired with a silver tie that caught the light. He looked like he belonged in an old oil painting: refined, cold, untouchable.
"Sit," he said without glancing at her.
She took the seat across from him, back straight, eyes sharp.
The table was ridiculous, covered in fruit, fresh pastries, eggs, cheese. Enough for ten people. And yet, the silence between them was louder than anything she'd ever known.
He finally looked up. "You don't eat?"
"I don't pretend," she replied, voice steady. "Let's not act like this is a real breakfast."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Only when I'm dead."
His lips quirked in something close to a smile, but not quite. "Tell me something, Mariluna. Why do you think I chose you?"
She crossed her arms. "Because you like collecting things. And I was just different enough to catch your eye."
He shook his head once. "Wrong. It was because you slapped me."
She blinked, caught off guard.
"I've had women thrown at me for years," he continued, voice low and calm. "All of them eager, trembling, whispering promises. But not you. You hit me. You looked at me like I was no one. That doesn't happen."
She stared at him. "So I entertained you."
"No," he said. "You challenged me. And I don't let challenges walk away. When someone dares to push back… I learn everything about them. What they want. What they fear. What will make them bend."
The air thickened. Not from his words, but the sheer pressure of his presence. It was like standing too close to a fire, quiet, but dangerous.
"I won't bend," she said quietly.
Lorenzo gave her a small, knowing smile. "You will. But not with chains."
He rose and walked around the table, stopping beside her chair. She didn't move, even as he leaned close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. His fingers reached up, not to touch, but to hover, almost grazing her skin.
"I'll make you choose to stay," he whispered. "That's far more powerful."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
The rest of the day passed in a strange, muffled blur. She was shown the East Wing, her domain, apparently. A library with old books, a sunroom filled with filtered light, a bedroom that looked like it belonged to royalty.
Everything was beautiful. Lavish. And completely under surveillance.
Guards were posted outside her door. Small cameras were hidden in corners. Every step she took was seen, every breath probably recorded. Escape was not only impossible, it was laughable.
But in the library, tucked behind a row of weathered hardcovers, she found something unexpected: a painting. A woman with long white hair and pale gray eyes stood alone in a garden, her back turned to the viewer. Below it, a small plaque read:
Verena Rossi
His mother?
She reached out and touched the frame. It was cool beneath her fingers. Distant. Like everything about him.
Why was her back turned?
She didn't have time to think further. Footsteps approached. Mariluna turned sharply.
David stood at the doorway, stiff as ever.
"Miss Mariluna," he said. "There's something you should know."
Her body tensed. "What?"
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "The Don's proposal… it's not entirely about you."
Her brows drew together. "What does that mean?"
David hesitated, then exhaled. "Someone is looking for you. Someone tied to your uncle. A name came up recently, he's been asking around. Dangerous people. Mr. Don didn't take you out of pity. He took you to keep you away from them."
A cold chill swept over her.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why would anyone care about me?"
David's face tightened. "Because your father's company wasn't just a tech startup. It was a front. There were secrets, big ones. And you may be the key to unlocking them. Even if you don't realize it yet."
She stumbled back, heart racing. "What secrets?"
"I don't know," David said. "But your uncle isn't the only threat. He's just the beginning."
That night, back in her room, Mariluna sat on the edge of the bed replaying everything David had said. Her mind spun. Her pulse felt like it was echoing in her ears.
Then she opened the drawer beside the bed.
A note rested inside, written in clean, sharp black ink:
Your father's sins are not buried. They're just waiting for the right daughter to dig them up.
—V
Her fingers trembled as she held the paper. Someone had been in her room. And they knew exactly who she was.