The office was quieter than Serena had expected. The city beyond the glass walls of Dante Leone's penthouse hummed faintly, but inside, it felt as though the world had been reduced to a single, suffocating point: him.
Serena had followed the faint memory of their last encounter, the whispers of "dirty money" still echoing in her mind. The gala, the studio, the public humiliation and rescue—it all felt like a carefully orchestrated game, and she hated that she had been drawn into it. Yet here she was, summoned to his office by a brief note left on her table: "We need to speak. Tonight. Alone."
She pushed the glass door open, heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Dante's office was as imposing as she had imagined: dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, leather chairs, and an air of control that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. He stood near the window, back to her, hands folded behind him, gazing at the city.
"Miss Moretti," he said without turning. His voice, smooth and low, filled the room. "Come in. Sit."
Serena hesitated, noting the faint tension in the air, the weight of unspoken rules pressing down on her. She perched on the edge of a leather chair, fingers gripping the armrest. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes." He turned, and for a moment, the room seemed smaller. His gaze was precise, measuring, like a scalpel dissecting every move she might make. "We need to talk about… everything. About your career. About your family. About how far you're willing to go."
She straightened, defensive. "I'm not sure what you mean. I build my career on my own work, my own talent. That's the only path I know."
He walked slowly toward her, not threatening, not aggressive, but the air between them charged with intensity. "Do you?" His tone was calm, almost gentle, but every word carried weight. "Or have you simply been lucky enough to avoid those who would control you?"
Serena bristled. "I don't need guidance from anyone."
He stopped in front of her, silent for a long beat, and studied her face. "Yet here you are."
Her jaw tightened. "Here I am because I want to be, not because I owe you anything."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do you know how it looks? You've been praised publicly, but whispers follow you—people questioning your sources, your family, your connections. And now…" His gaze flicked subtly, suggesting he knew more than he should. "…now you've seen the world behind the applause."
Serena's stomach twisted. "I've seen enough to know I don't want anything to do with your world, Mr. Leone. I don't trust it."
He smiled faintly, not warmly, but in a way that made her uneasy. "Trust is earned, Miss Moretti. And sometimes… it's a luxury you cannot afford."
Her pulse quickened. "Are you threatening me?"
"Not a threat," he said evenly. "A reality. One you've stepped into willingly, whether you know it or not."
The room fell silent, heavy with tension. Serena's mind raced. Every word he spoke was measured, deliberate, designed to test her—to see how far her resolve could stretch. She wanted to leave, to flee back to the safety of her studio, yet the room seemed to close in around her.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low but firm. "I'm not afraid of reality. I face it every day. I don't need you to protect me, or to teach me its rules."
Dante studied her silently, then stepped closer, reducing the space between them without touching her. "I'm not here to protect you, Miss Moretti. I'm here to ensure you understand it. And understand… that some paths, once chosen, cannot be abandoned."
She swallowed, anger and fear battling within her. "So you manipulate people to prove a point?"
He shrugged lightly, unconcerned. "I don't manipulate. I observe. I intervene when necessary. Sometimes… saving someone publicly teaches them where power lies. Where they stand. And where they will ultimately bend."
Serena's hands clenched into fists. "I will not bend to you."
"You might not see it yet," he said softly, almost a whisper. "But the world has a way of forcing choices. Choices you won't expect, consequences you can't control. And sometimes… it begins with one small step."
He circled her slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "Your talent is remarkable. Your ambition… even more so. But ambition without caution is dangerous. Do you understand that?"
She nodded, refusing to let him see the tremor in her chest. "I understand. And I don't need you to remind me."
For a moment, he simply watched her, quiet, calculating. Then, without warning, he turned and walked to the window again, his reflection cast in the glass, the city lights shimmering behind him. "We will continue this conversation," he said. "And Miss Moretti… remember: in my world, loyalty is currency. And I am always watching who spends it wisely."
Serena's stomach churned as he left the room, closing the door with a soft click that echoed far too loudly. She sank back in her chair, her body tense, mind racing. He hadn't touched her. He hadn't raised his voice. Yet the control, the power of his presence, lingered like a shadow she could not escape.
Her hands hovered over the sketches once more. The lines, the fabrics, the dreams she had poured into her work—they felt suddenly fragile, exposed. And somewhere deep inside, a dangerous thought whispered: I can't ignore him. I won't, even if I try.
Outside, the city slept, oblivious to the storm unfolding in one office high above the streets of Milan. Inside, Serena Moretti had just realized that surviving Dante Leone's world would be far more complicated than any design she had ever created.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to survive it.