BENEATH THE BILLIONAIRE'S CRUELTY

CHAPTER FIVE

But then, a year later, Isabella Chen—James's biological daughter—had approached him at a charity gala. "'Mr Moretti,' she'd purred, moving close. 'I have something you should see.'"

She'd shown him pictures on her phone. Amara is in bed with another man. The pictures were blurry, but they were clear enough. Amara's face, her unique features, her body with another man's.

"My sister," Isabella had said with feigned compassion. "She's been seeing this man for months. A nobody, a mechanic from the east side. I thought you should know, since you seemed... interested in her."

The pain of betrayal had been a physical thing. He'd hardly known the girl, had no claim on her, but the letdown had been crushing. He'd thought she was different, somehow. Pure. Above the games and machinations of his world.

He'd been wrong. Then he'd thrown himself into his work and into Sienna's arms, trying to shake the memory of amber eyes and a girl reading under a tree. He'd hardened his heart even further, layered another sheet of ice over the walls he'd constructed.

So when James Chen had offered Amara as payment, Dante had accepted. Not because he wanted her, but because he wanted to punish her. Wanted her to see what she'd thrown away. Wanted her to suffer, just a little, for making him feel something he'd had no business feeling.

Petty? Yes. Cruel? Absolutely. But Dante Moretti hadn't built an empire by being kind.

The irony was that she'd been in his house for six months, and he'd barely noticed her. She kept herself hidden, invisible, just as he'd instructed. He caught glimpses of her now and then—a figure in grey vanishing around a corner, a shadow cleaning up after he'd left a room. But he'd never really seen her.

Until this morning, when he'd tasted those pastries.

He'd known right away that they were different from the usual offerings. There was something in them, some quality of care and skill that raised them above simple sustenance. He'd eaten three before he'd realised what he was doing, and even then, he'd wanted more.

"Tell the kitchen to make these again," he'd said, and Marcus had looked at him strangely.

Now, sitting in his study, Dante wondered who had made them. Lucia, probably. She was the head cook, after all.

But something was bothering him. Some nagging sense that said otherwise.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. It didn't matter. He had far more pressing concerns than pastries.

His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Sienna.

"Darling, I'm bored. Take me to dinner tonight. Somewhere expensive." He sighed. Sienna was beautiful, refined, and completely draining. She required constant attention, constant amusement, constant reassurance. There were moments when he questioned why he even bothered keeping her around.

Then he recalled why: because she was safe. She wanted his wealth and his prestige, but nothing else. She didn't want his heart, didn't attempt to see beyond his defences. She was happy to be his accessory, his trophy, his diversion.

Unlike a girl with amber-colored eyes who'd betrayed him before he'd even had the chance to get to know her.

"I have work tonight," he texted back.

"You always have work. I'm coming over anyway. I'll be there at eight." He didn't bother to respond. Sienna would do what she wanted regardless of his answer. That was part of their dynamic—she pushed, he tolerated, and they both pretended it was a relationship. Dante went back to his contracts, but his mind kept drifting. To Victor's visit. To the Volkov threat. To the shipment next week. To pastries that tasted like someone had put their soul into making them.

To a girl he'd deliberately forgotten, living somewhere in his house like a ghost.

He wondered, for a moment, if she was happy. If she resented him for bringing her here, for reducing her to a servant. If she ever thought about that day in the garden six years ago when their eyes had met, and the world had seemed to pause.

Then he pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. She'd made her choices, and he'd made his. They were both living with the consequences.

That was how the world worked.

Meanwhile, three floors up, Amara was in her small room, finally alone after a day of endless labour. Her dress was still wet from where Sienna had spilt the water, and her hands were raw from scrubbing.

This wasn't the life she had planned. When her mother was alive, they had been poor but happy. Her mother had been a seamstress, and they had lived in a small apartment filled with love and laughter. Her mother had taught her to bake, to read, to dream.

"You're special, Amara," her mother would say, stroking her hair. "Don't ever let anyone make you feel small."

But her mother had died when Amara was fifteen, and everything had changed. Her stepfather, who'd always been cold, turned hostile. Isabella, her stepsister, had always been jealous, but after their mother's death, the jealousy turned sinister. They'd made her life a living hell. Treated her like a servant in her own house. Stolen her books, her mother's things, everything that was important to her. When she'd turned eighteen, she'd tried to leave, to find a job, but James had refused.

"You owe me," he'd said. "I fed you, housed you, raised you. You'll stay until that debt is paid."

So she'd stayed, stuck and unhappy, until the day James had gambled away more money than he could ever repay. Until the day he'd sold her to Dante Moretti.

She sat on her mattress, her back against the wall, and allowed herself a moment of weakness. Tears slid down her face, silent and bitter.