Chapter Two: Bruises & Breakfast
1570 Words
Emilia Rossi’s POV
The bruise on my cheekbone had turned from purple to green overnight.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at it. Just stared. Like if I looked long enough, it might disappear. Like shame could erase something so physical.
But it stayed. Pale green. Ugly. Quiet.
It didn’t scream like pain usually does. No, it whispered. It whispered every lie I’d ever told myself: It was your fault. You should’ve known better. You stayed too long. You said the wrong thing again.
I raised the concealer brush and pressed it to my skin. Gently, like I was afraid even that small contact might hurt. The makeup didn’t hide much. I didn’t expect it to. But pretending—trying—it gave me something I could control.
And control was rare these days.
I tugged the sleeve of my cardigan down over my wrist, careful not to catch the fabric on the fresh bruising there. They were faint, but I could still feel them under my skin. Fingerprints, practically. Like he’d tried to leave a message behind.
Mine.
I hated that I could still feel his grip. Hated that my body remembered.
⸻
The apartment was quiet when I stepped out of the bathroom. Cold. Still. And not in the comforting way some homes are quiet.
Logan hadn’t come home.
He didn’t leave a note. He never did. Just disappeared when he wanted. Reappeared when it suited him. The silence he left behind always felt like something was watching me. Waiting for me to slip up. To breathe too loud.
I poured cereal into a chipped bowl and sat down at the table, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach turned at the smell. I pushed the bowl away, uneaten, and stood.
Hands moved out of habit—rinsing the spoon, wiping the counter, folding the dish towel. Chores to pass the time. To keep the spiral from coming.
But it came anyway.
The moment I stepped out onto the balcony.
The wind was biting, but I didn’t feel it. I stood barefoot, one hand wrapped around the chipped mug filled with weak tea, and stared out over the edge of the railing.
The city stretched before me like a machine—steel and concrete and endless movement.
But I didn’t care about the city.
I cared about him.
Not Logan.
Not anymore.
The other him.
The man in the black suit.
The man with eyes so sharp they could cut.
The man who told me I was seen.
Who said words I hadn’t let myself dream of hearing:
He will never touch you again.
⸻
I didn’t know his name when he said it.
But I knew what he was.
Power.
Control.
Possession wrapped in a tailored coat.
And last night, when I stood in this exact spot, I felt it.
I felt him watching me.
Even though I couldn’t see him.
Even though the street looked empty except for that black SUV parked across from my building, I knew.
Someone was inside.
And whoever he was… he didn’t just see me.
He saw through me.
The way no one ever had.
Not even me.
⸻
By the time I got to the train station, the knot in my stomach had turned into something else—heavier. Like a presence pressing down on me.
I sat in the corner of the subway car, back to the wall, gripping my bag tightly across my lap. A man in a hoodie sat two seats away and kept glancing at me like he was trying to figure out if I was worth the trouble.
I lowered my eyes, tried to disappear into the fabric of my coat. My fingers gripped the edge of my sleeve again, tugging it over the wrist.
The bruise still pulsed beneath it.
Logan never hit me in public. Never left marks where they couldn’t be hidden. He was smarter than that.
But sometimes, smart didn’t matter.
Sometimes his temper won anyway.
Sometimes… he didn’t stop.
I tried to leave him once.
That was the night I heard the crack—felt the fire burst in my side—and knew my rib was broken.
After that, I stopped trying.
⸻
The Valeri building rose above the skyline like it owned the world.
All glass and silence. As if you had to whisper inside it or it would shatter from the weight of your voice.
I hated walking through the doors every morning. I hated the way people didn’t look at me—like I was invisible. And I hated the rare times they did—because then I became a target.
But yesterday… someone had looked at me.
Really looked.
And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.
⸻
I entered through the side entrance and took the service elevator like always. I couldn’t stand the front lobby—the suits, the cold smiles, the weight of so many eyes that didn’t actually see me.
Downstairs, I changed into my uniform in the staff locker room, tied my apron, redid my braid.
Routine.
Safety.
Survival.
Still, my hands were trembling before I even punched in.
⸻
The cafeteria was chaos by 7:30. The usual noise. The usual mess.
I kept my head down and moved like a ghost.
But everything felt… off.
Like I was walking through a memory of this place rather than the place itself.
Like I was watching myself work from far away.
And every time the door opened, I felt it again—that tightening in my chest.
That ache.
That awareness.
That he could be there.
⸻
It was just after eight when it happened.
I was elbow-deep in soapy water at the dish station, trying to focus on a stubborn crust of mashed potato, when the air around me shifted.
Heavier.
Still.
My heart stuttered.
And I knew.
I looked up.
And he was there.
Luca Valeri.
I knew his name now.
CEO. Shadow king. The man people only whispered about.
And he was standing in my cafeteria, watching me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t smile.
Just looked.
Right at me.
Like I was already his.
My breath caught in my throat. My hands slipped under the water, burning from the heat.
I blinked, and when I looked again, he was gone.
Just like that.
But the feeling stayed.
⸻
Lizzy appeared a few minutes later, humming under her breath and twirling a spoon in one hand.
“You okay?” she asked, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
She smirked. “You saw him again, didn’t you?”
I said nothing.
“Oh my god, you did.” She gasped dramatically. “Luca freaking Valeri. I’d give a kidney to have him look at me the way he looks at you.”
I laughed—too fast, too loud. A few people glanced our way.
I lowered my voice. “Don’t joke like that.”
“I’m not joking,” she whispered. “The man looks like sin wrapped in a black card. He walks through this place like he owns it. And girl… when he looked at you? I swear, I thought the building might catch fire.”
I turned away from her, face hot.
Because she wasn’t entirely wrong.
⸻
The rest of my shift passed in a blur.
But no matter how fast I moved, no matter how many trays I cleared or dishes I stacked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
That somewhere, somehow, he was still near.
And then it happened.
I was at the cutlery station, refilling the bins, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned fast—too fast.
No one was there.
Just a piece of paper sitting on the counter.
Folded.
Crisp.
Clean.
I looked around. No one was paying attention to me. Not even Lizzy.
My hands shook as I picked it up.
I unfolded it slowly.
And there it was.
He will never touch you again.
Same handwriting.
Same certainty.
Same message.
But now it felt like something more.
Not a warning.
A vow.
I looked toward the upper floor of the cafeteria.
And there he was.
Luca.
Three floors up. Hands in his pockets. Staring down at me like he’d already made a decision I wasn’t going to get a say in.
And then he nodded.
Just once.
But it shook something inside me loose.
Like a mark had been made.
Like a door had been opened.
And it was too late to shut it now.
⸻
I left early.
Told my supervisor I had a headache. Maybe I did.
I stepped out into the street and stopped cold.
The black SUV was parked there again.
Same one.
Same position.
Same weight pressing against my chest like a hand.
I walked faster than usual.
But when I reached the corner… I stopped.
Turned around.
Faced it.
I stood there for almost a full minute.
It didn’t move.
But I felt him.
Somewhere inside that shadowed glass, I knew he was watching.
And I didn’t run.
I should have.
But I didn’t.
And I didn’t know what scared me more—
The possibility that I was imagining all of it.
Or the fact that I wasn’t.
- Writer
