Chapter 2
1383 Words
The sun didn’t rise in Dominic Moretti’s world.
Not where monsters live above the clouds.
His penthouse was buried so high it barely felt like Earth.
The windows, tinted like secrets, filtered the light into something cold and unnatural. Everything inside was polished and perfect.
Like a mausoleum dressed as a museum.
I stood barefoot on the marble floor of the kitchen, wrapped in the silk robe a faceless maid had left for me. It wasn’t modest—it clung like liquid sin.
The coffee mug in my hand shook slightly as I tried to pretend I belonged here.
I didn’t.
The air was thick with silence until I heard footsteps—measured, steady.
Dominic.
He entered without a word, dressed in black slacks and a crisp charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
The first few buttons were undone, exposing a hint of ink on his chest—a tattoo I couldn’t fully make out.
He didn’t acknowledge me.
He moved like he owned the air. Like oxygen bent around him.
I took a slow sip of the coffee. Then, louder than necessary, I said, “What, no morning small talk? No, Did you sleep well?”
He paused mid-pour at the espresso machine.
“Did you?” he asked without turning around.
“No.”
He turned then, dark eyes dragging over me from head to toe. I hated how it made my skin burn.
“You should learn to rest when you can,” he said. “Things will get harder before they get easier.”
“How ominous.” I tilted my head. “What’s next? A white cat and a monologue?”
His lips twitched. The ghost of amusement.
“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if the Devil bleeds.”
That made him move.
One step, then another—slow, deliberate, like a storm deciding where to strike.
“I paid ten million for you,” he murmured. “And you think I’ll let you test me?”
I took another sip, feigning calm. “You bought a human being. What exactly did you expect? Gratitude?”
His jaw flexed. But he didn’t raise his voice. No, that would be too human. Instead, he leaned in just enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“I expected obedience.”
“You’ll be disappointed.”
His eyes locked on mine. He was so close I could see the flecks of gold around his pupils.
“You mistake my interest for mercy, Leona.”
“No,” I whispered. “I mistake your control for obsession.”
We stood like that for a breathless second—like two blades locked in a standoff.
Then he stepped back, and to my surprise… he laughed.
Low. Dangerous.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.
~
The day passed in silence. No guards. No chains. Just invisible walls.
I explored, ignoring the knot in my stomach.
The penthouse was vast, but sterile—minimalist decor, sharp angles, more security cameras than artwork. It was a castle made for a man who trusted no one.
The only room that looked lived in—human—was the music room.
There, in the center, stood a grand piano.
Its keys were worn. Touched. Loved.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the bench but didn’t sit. Somehow, it felt sacred. Too personal to touch. Too intimate.
Like a wound.
~
That night, I didn’t wait for him to find me. I found him.
He was in his office, on a call, speaking Italian too fast for me to catch all of it.
I stepped inside anyway.
He looked up, and his voice dropped.
“Chiudi. Ora.” (End it. Now.)
He hung up, his eyes narrowing.
“Bold,” he said.
I folded my arms. “I want answers.”
“To what?”
“Why me?”
He leaned back in his chair, studying me like a chess piece he was about to sacrifice—or crown.
“You stood still,” he said finally. "Everyone else trembles. You didn’t flinch.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He stood slowly. Walked toward me.
“Your father owed me. And you… intrigued me.”
“That’s it?” I challenged. “Ten million for a whim?”
He didn’t blink. “I don’t like losing.”
My breath caught. “What does that mean?”
“It means your father tried to run. He offered everything—money, assets, names. But he still came up short. I don’t like being owed.”
“So you took me to humiliate him.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “I took you to see what you’d do.”
“And what if I run?”
He smiled again.
“I hope you do.”
~
Later that night, I tried the front door.
Locked.
No surprise.
But it was important—to try. To prove to myself that I hadn’t accepted this. That I wasn’t giving in.
Not yet.
Not ever.
~
The next morning, Dominic didn’t speak to me.
But there was a package on the dining table. My name is written in sharp black ink.
Inside: a black dress. Expensive. Tailored. Off-the-shoulder. Paired with a note.
[Dinner. 8 PM. Do not test me. – D]
I stared at the note for a long time.
Then I smiled.
~
At 7:59 PM, I walked into the dining room in denim jeans and a white tank top. No makeup. No heels.
His reaction was exactly what I hoped for.
He looked up from his wine glass and went still.
His jaw tensed. His fingers curled.
I sat across from him, grabbed a breadstick, and took a bite.
“What? Not my clothes?” he flared.
“Take. Off. That. Shirt.”
Each word was a blade. Calm. Precise. I didn’t flinch.
I raised a brow. “You said come to dinner. You didn’t say how.”
His voice was steel. “I gave you a command.”
“And I’m not your trained puppy.”
He stood, slow and terrified. Then come to my side of the table.
I rose before he could touch me, fire burning in my throat. “Go ahead,” I whispered. "Punish me. Chain me. Hit me. Show me the beast I was sold to.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned in, his voice like silk-wrapped steel.
“You think you’re winning, that every act of defiance earns you freedom.” His breath tickled my jaw. “But darling… I like the fight.”
My pulse jumped. He smiled at it. Like a man watching prey tremble.
“I’ll break you,” he murmured, “without ever touching you.”
Then he walked away.
Leaving me standing in the ruins of my tiny rebellion.
~
I didn’t sleep.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I was furious.
At him. At my father. In this city of silk-wrapped monsters.
I couldn’t win by strength. But I could outthink him.
I’d survived my father’s fists. I could survive a suit with a crown.
Dominic Moretti wanted a pet.
He bought a wolf instead.
~
The next day, I waited for him in the music room.
When he entered, he stopped.
I was seated at the piano. Playing.
Soft, slow chords. Not perfect—but close.
He said nothing for a while.
Then: “Who taught you?”
“My mother.”
The room was still.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“You never mentioned her,” he said—quiet, but not soft.
“She died when I was ten.”
He crossed the room, slow and thoughtful.
“You’re full of secrets,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
We locked eyes across the piano.
Something shifted.
Less war.
More… warning.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said.
“No.”
“You should be.”
“I’m afraid of cages. Not men.”
He stepped closer, fingers brushing a high note beside mine. “What if I offered both?”
I looked up at him.
“Then I’ll play louder. Until the bars crack.”
- Writer
