Chapter 4: The Devil's House
786 Words
Myra stood frozen at the threshold of the Moretti estate—a towering, cold monument of wealth and warning. The massive iron gates had swallowed her whole, and the stone mansion ahead seemed more like a fortress than a home.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as the butler led her inside. The moment the doors shut behind her, the silence was deafening. No warm lights. No welcome. Just shadows—and the scent of danger.
“This way, ma’am,” the butler said with a bow.
She hated the word ma’am. She wasn’t his wife. Not in spirit. Not in soul. Not yet.
As she stepped into the grand hallway, her eyes caught every detail: the black crystal chandelier looming above like a spider waiting to drop, oil paintings of grim-faced Moretti ancestors lining the walls like silent judges, and in the center—a red carpet that looked more like a trail of blood leading deeper into Aryan’s lair.
He was already waiting.
Leaning against the banister of the grand staircase, Aryan looked like he belonged in a crime magazine cover—immaculate black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his tattooed forearms, and a look in his eyes that could melt bullets or shoot them.
“You're home, Mrs. Moretti,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“Don’t call me that,” she replied, walking past him. “Not when you had to force it.”
He caught her wrist as she passed. Not hard, but firm enough to remind her of who he was. “Everything I do is with a reason, Myra. Even saving your brother.”
She yanked her hand free and climbed the stairs without another word.
The room assigned to her was luxurious—a king-size bed with silk sheets, a walk-in closet filled with designer dresses, and a vanity with more makeup than she’d ever owned. It was perfect. But it wasn’t hers.
It was a cage with velvet bars.
She opened the window.
High walls. Armed guards. Electric fencing.
Escape? Impossible.
Myra sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands. Just three days ago, she was laughing with her boyfriend over street food. Now she was married to a mafia prince who could kill with a glance.
What the hell had she gotten into?
That night, she found a note on her pillow in Aryan’s handwriting:
Dinner. 9 PM. Dress accordingly. Disobedience won’t be cute tonight.
Myra crumpled the note and tossed it. But she knew better than to ignore it.
She chose a blood-red silk gown from the closet. Fitting. A warning.
The dining hall was grander than any palace—long table, golden candelabras, and Aryan seated at the head like a king who ruled kingdoms with blood, not ballots.
He didn’t look up when she walked in. Just sipped his wine.
“You clean up well,” he muttered.
“I dressed for war,” she said, taking the seat opposite him.
“Good,” he said, slicing into his steak. “Because that’s exactly what marriage is.”
The food was untouched on her plate.
Aryan finally looked up, studying her like she was a puzzle he enjoyed keeping unsolved.
“You’re not scared of me, are you?”
“I’m terrified,” she replied honestly. “But I’m more terrified of losing myself in your world.”
He smirked. “You’ll adapt. Everyone does.”
“Maybe I’m not everyone.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming. “That’s what excites me.”
Later that night, as Myra stood on the balcony staring at the moon, she heard footsteps behind her.
“I don’t sleep with strangers,” she said without turning around.
Aryan’s voice was closer than expected. “Good. Neither do I.”
A beat of silence.
Then he said, “But don’t mistake this space I give you for weakness. You belong to me now, Myra. The world will see you as my queen. And if you cross me…”
She turned slowly to face him, meeting his eyes head-on.
“You’ll kill me?”
He took a step closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No. I’ll let you live. But I’ll destroy everything else you love.”
That night, Myra didn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling, haunted by the vow she had just made. A vow soaked in blood and fear. A vow that chained her to a man with no heart… and yet, somehow, a soul that made her chest ache.
She didn’t know what was scarier—
That she hated him.
Or that deep, deep down…
She was starting to understand him.
- Writer
