Chapter 5: Her First Commandment—Don’t Fall for the Devil
1054 Words
The first morning as a Moretti dawned not with birdsong, but with silence.
Heavy. Dense. Loaded with the weight of choices Myra didn’t get to make.
She woke up in a bed too soft to feel like her own, wrapped in silk sheets that smelled of lavender and danger. Her gaze traveled across the chandelier above her, then to the velvet drapes that kept sunlight out like a secret.
She sat up slowly, the memory of last night still clinging to her skin like perfume.
Aryan’s voice echoed in her mind—
“You belong to me now.”
She clenched the sheets, her heart pounding not with fear anymore—but fury.
As she stepped into the bathroom, she expected marble and mirrors. What she didn’t expect was a note taped to the glass.
Meet me in the south garden. 7:45. Wear something comfortable. – A.
She glanced at the clock. 7:32 AM.
“Tyrant,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, but still—her feet were already moving toward the wardrobe.
She hated that part of her that listened.
The south garden looked like it was ripped from a royal postcard—rose vines wrapped around iron arches, a marble fountain humming in the center, birds in gilded cages singing songs they’d never know were tragic.
Aryan stood by the fountain, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, sunglasses on. Commanding. Cold. Deadly.
But even in the daylight, there was a wicked charm to him.
And Myra hated that she noticed.
“You’re late,” he said, without looking at her.
She checked the time. 7:45 on the dot.
“You said 7:45.”
“I said meet me. You should’ve arrived early. That’s what smart people do in my world.”
She folded her arms. “And what world is that?”
He turned toward her slowly. “The one where love is a weakness. Loyalty is rare. And betrayal… is currency.”
Something in her chest shifted. That wasn’t a line. That was a scar.
They walked in silence for a while. Myra pretended not to feel how close he walked beside her, like a storm grazing her skin. Finally, she asked, “Why this marriage, Aryan? Why me?”
He stopped.
Dead stop.
“Because,” he said slowly, “when you look at me… you don’t see a monster. Not yet. And I needed someone who’d look at me like that for a little while longer.”
The air went still.
Myra didn’t know if her heart was aching or breaking.
Before she could respond, Aryan’s phone rang. He answered with a grim expression, muttered something in Italian, then hung up.
“Change of plans,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
Ten minutes later, they were inside his black McLaren, speeding past gates and bodyguards.
“Where are we going?” Myra asked, holding the seat.
“To show you what it means to be married to a man like me.”
They reached an underground warehouse at the edge of the city.
Inside: crates, cash, guns. Men in suits. Women who looked like danger in lipstick. The scent of gunpowder and power hung in the air like perfume.
Aryan walked like a king returning to his court. Every man nodded. Every woman stepped back.
He turned to Myra. “Stay behind me. Speak only when I say. Trust no one.”
Myra held her breath. But nodded.
A tall Russian man emerged from the shadows.
“Moretti,” he said with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “This is your new queen?”
Aryan’s hand went to Myra’s waist. Not possessive. Protective.
“She is,” he said.
The Russian’s eyes lingered too long.
Aryan’s voice turned razor-sharp. “I suggest you look away before I make you blind.”
The room fell into ice.
But Myra saw it now.
Aryan wasn’t just dangerous.
He was feared.
And feared men ruled by making others bleed.
On the drive back, neither spoke for a while. The city passed them by like a blur of ghosts.
Then Myra whispered, “That man… you would’ve killed him.”
Aryan’s jaw clenched. “He disrespected you. In my world, disrespect has consequences.”
“And what about me?” she asked softly. “What if I disrespected you?”
He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “You already have. Every time you look at me like I stole your life.”
“And?”
“I still haven’t hurt you, have I?”
Silence.
She looked away.
But she didn’t miss the way his fingers brushed hers as they rested between the car seats.
It was electric.
And terrifying.
That night, Aryan didn’t come to her room.
Instead, a parcel was delivered. Inside it: a sapphire necklace and a handwritten note.
For the way you kept your fire in a room full of men who wanted to burn it down. – A.
Myra stared at the note for a long time.
And she realized something horrifying:
He wasn’t just getting into her life.
He was getting under her skin.
The Next Morning
Myra stood in the library, tracing the spine of an old poetry book when someone entered.
Lucia Moretti—Aryan’s younger sister.
Beautiful. Elegant. Dangerous in her own right.
“You’re braver than I expected,” Lucia said, sitting down without invitation.
“I don’t follow.”
“You asked Aryan a question yesterday that no one’s ever dared ask.”
Myra raised a brow. “Which one?”
Lucia smiled. “Why you? He never explains himself. To anyone.”
They stared at each other.
Women on two ends of a sword.
“You’re either going to survive him,” Lucia said finally, “or you’re going to be the one thing that kills him.”
That night, as Myra walked the corridors of the mansion, she heard piano music.
Soft. Broken. Bleeding emotion.
She followed it… and found Aryan, alone in the dark, playing the keys like he was confessing sins to them.
He didn’t see her. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.
She stayed.
She listened.
And something inside her cracked.
This wasn’t just a monster in a suit.
This was a man hiding wounds so deep, only music could hold them.
- Writer
