Chapter 3
1794 Words
The creak of a heavy wooden door opened into a room so vast, Aira’s breath caught in her throat.
It was nothing like she’d imagined a mafia don’s bedroom would be.
No blood-red walls. No skulls on shelves.
Just deep mahogany, dark grey linen, sleek modern shelves and silence. It was clean. Minimalist. Cold.
“Signora,” the maid said softly, stepping aside. “This will be your room.”
Aira blinked. “His room?”
The woman nodded.
Aira didn’t move.
She could still feel the weight of Zane’s mother’s words echoing in her chest like poison. Weak. Worthless.
“Do you need help changing?” the maid asked gently.
Aira flinched. “I don’t… have clothes.”
Before the maid could respond, another voice cut through the space like a blade.
“Why is she here?”
Aira turned.
Zane stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, his black shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing the tension in his forearms. He wasn’t angry. He was furious.
“Who told you to put her in my room?” he snapped at the maid.
The woman immediately bowed her head. “I was told she would stay where the bride stays.”
“She’s not my bride yet.” His voice was ice. “Get her out of here.”
Aira’s stomach twisted.
The air thickened around them.
“I’m not here because I want to be,” she said quietly, bitterness rising like bile. “You dragged me here like property. Now you’re offended I’m in your room?”
He looked at her then. Really looked at her.
She was still in the same dress from earlier, dirt smeared on the hem, her skin pale, arms wrapped tightly around herself like armour.
Her voice was shaking. But her eyes weren’t.
They were sharp. Defiant. Alive.
He hated how much that stirred something in him.
Zane turned away. “Put her in the guest wing. East hall. Far end.”
Hazel swallowed her pride. “I still need clothes.”
The silence that followed was so sharp it could’ve sliced skin.
Then, he exhaled. Pulled open a drawer. Rifled through it with stiff fingers.
She watched, arms crossed, chin high. The pain of being rejected twisted inside her, but she would never let him see it.
He walked back and held out a black T-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants.
Her lips curled faintly. “You sure you want me touching your things?”
He didn’t answer.
Just handed them over, fingers brushing hers for half a second.
That single touch burned more than it should have.
She looked down at the clothes in her hands. Clean. Soft. Still warm.
They smelled like him.
Like danger and soap and cedarwood.
“I’ll return them,” she said coldly.
“No,” he replied.
Her gaze snapped to him.
He held her stare. “Keep them. They’ll remind you who owns you now.”
Aira’s chest tightened.
She wanted to scream. Throw the clothes in his face.
Instead, she said nothing. Just turned and walked away, fists tight around the fabric.
But as she stepped out of his room, his voice followed her.
Quiet. Low. It cost him something to say.
“…And if you get cold, the sweaters are in the bottom drawer.”
Aira froze.
And for the first time since entering his world…
She didn’t know whether to be afraid of him
Or of herself.
The room was beautiful.
Aira knew that.
She knew the curtains were silk, the bedding softer than anything she’d owned, and the lighting so perfect it could’ve been in a magazine.
But it didn’t feel like hers.
It felt like a cage painted in gold.
She sat near the edge of the bed, knees pulled up to her chest, wearing the black T-shirt Zane had given her. It swallowed her frame, the hem reaching her thighs, the sleeves falling past her elbows.
The scent of him clung to it.
That infuriating scent masculine, cold, is wrapped around her like a second skin.
Her hands trembled as she reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, tangling the strands. Her throat ached. Her ribs felt tight, like something inside her was about to shatter.
And then
She broke.
Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and silent. No dramatic sobs, no gasping for air.
Just quiet, steady destruction.
She buried her face in her knees, trying to breathe through it.
Everything she had trained for, everything she had planned it was slipping through her fingers like smoke.
She had come here with a mission.
With orders.
With purpose.
But now? She felt nothing but helpless. Violated. Alone.
Elsewhere, in the mansion…
The room was dark, except for the blue light of the security screens.
Zane sat alone, one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of whiskey, the other clenching the armrest of his chair.
His eyes didn’t move.
They were locked on her.
Camera 17. Guest Wing. East Corridor. Room 4.
Aira.
He hadn’t meant to watch. Not at first.
He told himself it was a precaution. Protocol. She was an outsider dangerous, unpredictable. He needed to know what she would do.
But when he’d seen her collapse by the bed…
When he saw her cry…
Something in him twisted.
She looked small. Fragile in a way that had nothing to do with weakness.
He didn’t know why it unsettled him so deeply.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t cried in front of him. She hadn’t begged for comfort or tried to win his favour.
She’d waited until she was alone.
And that made it worse.
Because it meant she didn’t trust anyone enough to break in front of.
Not even him.
Especially not him.
He took a slow sip of the whiskey. Let it burn down his throat. Let the silence stretch as Aira’s quiet sobs flickered on the screen.
“You’re not supposed to look like that,” he muttered under his breath.
You’re supposed to fight.
Scratch. Scream. Hate me.
Not make me feel like this.
His jaw clenched.
He hated weakness.
And yet
He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Aira curled tighter into herself, and for a fleeting moment, he wanted to walk to that room. Sit beside her. Say nothing. Just let her fall apart in silence, where no one could see but him.
But he stayed frozen.
Because he didn’t know how to touch her without breaking something inside himself.
And worse
He didn’t know if he wanted to stop her tears…
Or become the reason for more of them.
Aira woke to a knock.
She blinked in the soft morning light pouring through the tall windows. For a second, she forgot where she was.
Then the cold marble floors and too-perfect silence reminded her.
This wasn’t home.
It was the lion’s den.
“Signora,” a soft voice called through the door. “Mrs. Harlow requests your presence at the breakfast table.”
Aira sat up slowly, still wearing Zane’s T-shirt, crumpled and warm with sleep. Her eyes were puffy. Her throat is raw. She hadn’t really slept.
She’d just stopped crying.
She changed into the simple ivory dress the maid had left folded by the door. Clean, neat, modest. The kind of dress that made her feel like she didn’t belong in this kingdom of diamonds and blood.
Her legs felt heavy as she followed the maid down the hall and into a dining room the size of a ballroom.
There were at least twelve seats around the table, but only one was occupied.
Lucia Harlow.
Wrapped in a silk robe the colour of wine, her lips painted crimson, her eyes sharp like daggers waiting to be thrown.
Aira hesitated near the doorway.
Lucia’s eyes lifted slowly from her tea. “Why is she here?” she snapped at the maid. “I said only family for breakfast.”
Aira’s spine straightened, but her chest tightened.
Before the maid could answer, a second voice cut through the tension.
“Because I asked her to be.”
Zane.
He walked in like a storm wrapped in calm. Dark suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up, his hair a little tousled, as if the world didn’t dare demand perfection from him.
Aira didn’t realise she was holding her breath until she exhaled.
Lucia’s face changed like a chameleon’s.
The fury disappeared. Replaced by a sickly sweet smile.
“Oh, darling,” she cooed, folding her hands. “Of course she’s welcome. I was just surprised, that’s all.”
Aira didn’t believe the act for a second.
Lucia turned to her, eyes narrowing behind her pleasant expression. “So, my dear… how was your first night in our home?”
Aira hesitated. “It was… fine.”
Lucia’s smile widened. “Really? That’s good to hear. I do hope you found Zane’s room comfortable.”
Aira froze.
She could feel the weight of the trap in that question.
Lucia already knew.
Aira looked down at her hands in her lap. “I didn’t stay in his room.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Zane’s voice was low, cool.
“It’s not important, Mother.”
Aira dared a glance at him.
His expression gave nothing away, but he had positioned his body slightly toward her. Like he was guarding her. From his own family.
Lucia gave a light, condescending laugh. “Of course not. I’m sure the girl was just overwhelmed. New surroundings, new expectations.”
Aira’s stomach clenched. Her appetite was gone. The table was filled with every imaginable breakfast option: croissants, fruit platters, smoked meats, rich cheeses but she could barely touch the glass of orange juice in front of her.
She sipped once. That was enough.
Every bite would feel like swallowing nails in front of Lucia.
Moments later, Zane stood. “We’re leaving.”
Aira’s head snapped up.
Lucia looked stunned. “Where are you going?”
“Business,” he said flatly. Then he turned to Aira. “Come.”
Aira blinked. “Me?”
He didn’t repeat himself.
Lucia’s smile turned brittle. “Surely she needs time to rest”
“She’ll come,” Zane cut in.
Aira’s heart pounded. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t know where, or why, or what “business” meant in his world.
But something told her it would be worse to say no.
So, she stood. Wiped her damp palms on the side of her dress. Followed him.
Lucia watched them leave.
Eyes burning. Nails digging into the fine linen napkin on her lap.
She didn’t care about the girl.
Not really.
What enraged her…
Was the fact that her son's blood was starting to care.
- Writer
