Chapter 3: The Edge of Content
1352 Words
By noon, the house had learned my name.
Not the way names are usually learned softly, through repetition, but the way warnings are passed down hallways without being spoken. Doors open before I reach them. Eyes drop. Conversations die when I enter a room.
I feel it everywhere.
I belong to Luca Montelli now, and the house understands ownership better than kindness.
He keeps me waiting.
It’s deliberate. I know that much. Time is his favorite tool. He uses it the way other men use threats. I sit in the sitting room he’s chosen for me, the one with the glass wall that looks down over the city, and I try not to pace.
I failed.
My body hums with an energy I don’t recognize. My skin feels too tight. Every nerve is tuned to the corridor outside the door, waiting for footsteps. I pretend I don’t want to hear.
When they finally come, my pulse spikes like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Luca enters without announcement.
He’s changed since breakfast. Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair slightly disordered, like he'd already been irritated today and enjoyed it. His eyes find me instantly, sharp and intent, like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve.
“You didn’t eat lunch,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
His gaze drops, slow and unashamed, taking in my body the way a man checks a weapon before using it.
“You were,” he says. “You chose not to.”
The distinction unsettles me.
“Is this why you called me here?” I ask. “To monitor my meals?”
He steps closer. One step. Then another.
“I called you here,” he says calmly, “to make sure you understand the boundaries of this arrangement before you test them.”
“I’m not testing anything.”
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile.
“You tested me the moment you looked at me like I was the one in control,” he says.
Heat coils low in my stomach - unwelcome, undeniable.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I lied.
Luca stops an arm’s length away. Close enough that the air between us feels charged, heavy with unsaid things. His voice lowers.
“You should be,” he says. “Fear keeps people alive, Aliah.”
“And desire?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What does that do?”
Something sharp flickers in his eyes.
“Desire,” he says softly, “makes people careless.”
His hand comes up and is not to touch me, but to brace against the glass wall beside my head. The sound is quiet. Final. I’m trapped between his body and the city spread out below us like it doesn’t know it’s irrelevant.
“You feel it,” he continues, eyes never leaving mine. “I can tell by the way your breathing changed.”
I hate that he’s right.
“I don’t feel anything,” I say.
“Another lie,” he murmurs. “You’re full of them.”
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes my cheek. My body reacts before my mind can stop it. My muscles tightening, my skin buzzing, my pulse jumping like it’s been waiting for permission.
Luca notices.
Of course, he does.
“That,” he says quietly. “That’s awareness. Not an attraction. Not yet.”
Yet.
“You’re manipulating me,” I whisper.
“Yes, Aliah,” he agrees without hesitation.
Honesty hits harder than denial ever could.
“Why?” I ask.
His eyes darken, something colder sliding into place behind them. “Because you think endurance makes you strong,” he says. “And I need you to understand the difference between endurance and surrender.”
A shiver runs through me.
“I won’t surrender,” I say.
Luca straightens slightly, studying me like I’ve just confirmed a theory.
“Good,” he says. “Neither will I.”
He steps back, reclaiming space as easily as he invaded it, and the sudden absence of his heat is almost painful.
“You’re meeting my lawyer in an hour,” he adds. “After that, we’ll visit a tailor.”
“A tailor?”
“My wife will not look unclaimed,” he says flatly.
Anger flares. “You said this wasn’t about appearances.”
“I said it wasn’t about s*x,” he corrects. “Don’t confuse the two.”
Before I can respond, his phone vibrates. He glances at it, jaw tightening.
“Stay here,” he says.
The command sits between us like a dare.
“I’m not a prisoner,” I snapped.
Luca pauses at the door and looks back at me, something dangerous glinting in his gaze.
“No,” he says. “You’re leveraged. There’s a difference.”
The door closes.
I sink into the chair behind me, legs unsteady, heart racing. My body feels like it’s been tuned too tight, every sensation magnified. I’m furious at him, at myself, at the traitorous heat still pooling low in my belly.
This is what he wants.
Not submission.
Reaction.
When Luca returns, he isn’t alone.
Two men follow him in. One older, sharp-eyed, carrying a leather folder; the other younger, silent, his gaze scanning the room like a threat assessment. They stop when Luca lifts a hand.
“This is Aliah,” Luca says, his tone shifting into something colder, more distant. “My fiancée.”
The word lands like a brand.
The lawyer smiles politely. “A pleasure.”
I nod, jaw tight.
The meeting is efficient and ruthless. Dates. Contracts. Clauses that make my skin prickle and confidentiality, obedience in public, discretion enforced by penalties I don’t ask to hear explained.
Luca watched me the entire time.
Not the lawyer. Not the documents.
Me.
When it’s over, the men leave. The door closes again, sealing us into the quiet.
“You didn’t object,” Luca says.
“Would it have mattered?”
“No,” he admits.
“Then why test me?”
He steps closer again, slower this time. “Because you’re learning,” he says. “And I need to know how quickly.”
“I’m not something you get to study.”
“You are now.”
His fingers brush my wrist as he passes me, light and fleeting, but it sends a jolt through my body that feels entirely disproportionate. I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
Luca freezes.
Slowly, he turns back.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs. “Interesting.”
“Don’t,” I say.
He lifts my hand gently, turning my wrist, so my pulse is exposed. His thumb hovers there, close enough that I feel the promise of pressure.
“Your body doesn’t listen to your pride,” he says. “That’s not a weakness. It’s an opening.”
“Touch me,” I challenge, voice shaking, “and you prove I was right about you.”
His thumb presses down.
Not hard.
Just enough.
My pulse jumps beneath his skin, betraying me completely.
Luca watches it with dark fascination.
“I don’t need to touch you more than this,” he says quietly. “You’re already responding.”
Heat floods me with shame, anger, desire tangled together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Let go,” I whisper.
He does.
Immediately.
The loss feels like a bruise.
“Good,” he says. “You still know how to ask.”
He steps back, composure snapping into place once more.
“Tonight,” he adds, turning away, “you’ll attend dinner with me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I didn’t ask.”
The door closes behind him again, leaving me alone with the echo of his presence and a truth I don’t want to face is that Luca Moretti isn’t crossing my boundaries.
He’s teaching my body where they are.
And slowly, terrifyingly.
He’s teaching it to whoever holds them.
- Writer
