Chapter 3: The First Night
1213 Words
Serenity
I didn’t cry when I peeled off the velvet dress.
But God, I wanted to.
Instead, I folded it over the back of a chair—neat, obedient, like I was afraid wrinkling it might make the whole day come undone.
The penthouse was so quiet, that it made me feel louder just breathing. There were no creaks, no city noise, no signs of life. Just money-slick silence stretching from one polished corner to the next.
Luca had walked me in like I was a delivery he needed to sign for. Pointed down a hallway. “You’re in the east wing,” he’d said.
No smile. No warmth. Just direction.
I didn’t ask if he’d be in the west. It was obvious.
Now I stood barefoot in what was technically my room. Cream walls. A bed that looked too perfect to sleep in. A window bigger than the apartment I grew up in.
I was surrounded by everything I’d never had.
And somehow, I’d never felt smaller.
I gave sleep a shot. Tossed. Turned. Listened to the AC hum like it had secrets. Nothing worked.
I kept thinking about the way he said my name before we went our separate ways. Soft, like he didn’t want to bruise it. Like maybe he wasn’t as indifferent as he acted.
But I couldn’t trust that.
I didn’t trust anything here.
So I got up. Slipped into one of the silk robes someone had hung in the closet—still had a tag on it. I padded down the hallway, half hoping I’d run into no one. Half hoping I’d run into him.
The kitchen was cold and perfect, just like the rest of the place. The Fridge was full. The counters were spotless. But there's nothing I wanted.
I grabbed a bottle of water, leaned on the island, and stared at nothing.
And then—I heard him.
Footsteps.
I froze like I’d been caught stealing.
Luca walked in, barefoot and shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips like some ridiculous magazine spread.
I looked away immediately. “You sleep in that?”
He shrugged like it wasn’t a question. “When I sleep.”
“Insomnia?” I asked.
“Memories.”
That stopped me for a second.
I looked at him again, really looked this time. Not the version of him from headlines or contracts. But this quieter one. The one who stood here at 2 a.m., drinking tea in the dark.
He poured a mug. Chamomile. No sugar, no honey. Just bitter warmth.
“Didn’t expect to see you up,” he said, leaning against the counter opposite me.
“Couldn’t shut my brain off.”
We stood there in matching silence, both of us pretending not to feel the weight of it.
“I thought you did well today,” he said eventually.
“You mean I looked the part.”
“I meant what I said.”
I gave a little shrug. “Cool. Next time I’ll try blinking in sync with the chandelier.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t walk away either.
“You’re angry.”
“No,” I said. “I’m tired.Tired of being polished. Tired of pretending. And tired of watching people look right through me while I smile on cue.”
He sipped his tea. “This isn’t personal, Serenity.”
“That’s the problem,” I snapped, softer than I meant to. “Nothing here is.”
The mug hovered near his lips. He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he set it down.
“You hate me a little, don’t you?”
I blinked. “What?”
He was calm. Too calm. “You should. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I don’t hate you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t,” I said again. “I just don’t know what to do with you.”
That surprised him. For half a second, he looked like he didn’t have a script for that.
“I didn’t want this to feel like a prison,” he said.
“But it does.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
Something cracked then. Not loudly. Just… enough.
For the first time, he wasn’t Luca Vance the billionaire, or the man behind a contract. He was just… a guy in a kitchen. Awake at 2 a.m., trying to make peace with something that wouldn’t let him sleep.
“I used to think if I controlled everything,” he said, “no one could touch me.”
I swallowed. “That’s not protection. That’s isolation.”
He looked at me then. Not through me.But at me.
And damn it, it almost felt like being seen.
I pushed off the counter. “I should. There's big day of scheduled appearances and monitored smiles tomorrow.”
He didn’t stop me. Just said, “Goodnight, Serenity.”
But the way he said it—low, careful—it landed somewhere I wasn’t ready for.
I nodded. “Goodnight.”
Then I walked back to my room like I wasn’t two seconds from falling apart.
The next morning, everything reset.
Penthouse was buzzing again. Jenna was back. The kitchen smelled like pressed juices and disappointment.
Luca was already gone.
“Meeting,” Jenna said when I asked. “He’ll be gone most of the day.”
Of course.
He slipped in through cracks and vanished before you could ask him what the hell he meant.
I had breakfast alone. The toast was cold.
Later, I opened the suitcase I hadn’t touched since arriving.
I unpacked slowly.
Laid out my pajamas. My lotion. A tiny photo of my brother and me on a rooftop in Brooklyn.
My life, shrunk to a few objects.
But they were mine.
And in a place where everything had someone else’s name on it, that mattered.
A knock came around noon.
Delivery.
Luxury boutique. My name is handwritten on the tag.
Inside: a coat.
Not flashy. Not overdone. Navy wool. Clean lines. Soft as a whisper.
I put it on. It fit like it had been made for me.
And it didn’t take a genius to know who sent it.
Luca.
No note. No card.
But this wasn’t about clothes.
This was him, in his language, saying: I saw you yesterday.
And maybe that scared me more than anything else.
I stood by the window in that coat, trying not to let it mean more than it should.
And then—my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You should know who he really is before you get too comfortable.
Attached: a photo.
Luca. Another woman. His hand on her waist. Her eyes locked on him like she owned him.
The timestamp was from last month.
I sat down hard on the bed, the air knocked out of me.
Not because I was shocked.
But because hope had been growing in me like a weed.
And this? This was the snip of the shears.
I saved the photo.
Deleted the number.
Turned off the phone.
Because I wasn’t ready to deal. Not yet.
But I would.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’d look him in the eye and ask:
Who is she? And what game are you really playing?
- Writer
