8- Marcello
1209 Words
Sienna
My heart fluttered so hard it genuinely embarrassed me.
His gaze lifted slowly back to mine while my entire nervous system malfunctioned in real time.
“Goodnight,” he murmured.
And somehow, hearing my sanity collapse sounded exactly like that voice.
My brain was still trying to recover from the hand kiss when he casually shrugged off his suit jacket.
I blinked at him in confusion.
Then he stepped forward and draped it over my shoulders before I could process what was happening.
The fabric swallowed me instantly, warm from his body and smelling faintly of whiskey, cedarwood, and something darker I couldn’t describe.
Jesus Christ.
I stood there frozen while he adjusted the collar slightly, his fingers brushing against my neck for barely a second.
Still enough to send my nervous system into cardiac arrest.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he said simply.
Excuse me?
I stared at him.
This man had just asked me to become his contract pet, kissed my hand like he stepped out of a morally questionable historical romance, and now he was worried about me getting cold?
What kind of psychological warfare was this?
Before I could even form a response, he stepped back again.
Composed and calm. Like he hadn’t just completely scrambled my internal organs.
“The exit will take you back upstairs,” he said.
And somehow that was clearly my dismissal.
I tightened my fingers around the black card still sitting in my palm before slowly turning toward the door.
I could feel his eyes on me the entire way.
God.
The man watched people like a profession.
The second I stepped outside, I finally exhaled properly.
My heart was still beating way too fast.
The hallway suddenly felt colder now that his jacket sat around my shoulders.
Or maybe that was just because his scent was everywhere and my brain refused to function normally because of it.
I walked back toward the main club area slowly, trying to make sense of literally anything that had just happened.
Nothing about that conversation felt real.
A contract pet?
Who even says things like that with a straight face?
And worse...
Why the hell was part of me actually considering it?
That was the truly humiliating part.
Not the proposition. Not the hand kiss. Not even the terrifyingly attractive man sitting in dark basements making life-altering offers.
The humiliating part was the fact that something inside me had responded to him immediately.
Like my body recognized danger and wanted it anyway.
I hated that.
Especially because I couldn’t even explain why.
This mysterious man who made my nerves a hot mess wasn’t soft or comforting. Neither was he safe.
He was intense in a way that felt almost suffocating.
And still...
The pull toward him sat heavily inside my chest.
Warm. Tempting. Completely irrational.
I rubbed my face tiredly as I walked backstage.
Maybe I was concussed.
That honestly felt more comforting than admitting I might genuinely be attracted to the emotionally unavailable rich dude with ownership issues.
The second I stepped backstage, Roxy spotted me immediately.
And gasped dramatically.
“b***h!”
Oh no.
I already knew that tone.
Her eyes dropped to the oversized black jacket hanging off my shoulders before slowly lifting back to my face.
“You do not look like someone who just gave a private session.”
I blinked once. “Because I didn’t.”
The gasp she let out this time could’ve qualified as a public health emergency.
“I KNEW IT.”
Several girls nearby turned to stare.
Roxy ignored all of them.
She grabbed my arm aggressively and dragged me toward the vanity mirrors like we were about to discuss national security secrets.
“What happened?” she whisper-shouted. “Who was he? Why are you wearing his jacket? Wait—was he not into the dance thing? Was it emotional? Was it murder?”
I stared at her.
“How did you get murder from any of that?”
“You’d be surprised what rich men request.”
Honestly… that's true.
I dropped into the chair heavily while Roxy continued staring at me with the intensity of an FBI investigator.
“Well?”
I exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Her face twisted immediately. “You don’t know what happened?”
I shot her a look. “I do.”
“Then what do you not know?”
Everything.
I didn’t know why he wanted me, why he looked at me like that, why his voice affected me so much, why my morals were currently hanging off a cliff fighting for survival.
I rubbed my forehead.
“He’s weird.”
Roxy blinked. “That’s the description we’re going with?”
“He asked me to live with him.”
Silence stretched. Then—
“HE WHAT?”
Every dancer within a five-foot radius definitely heard that.
I winced. “Can you lower your voice?”
“No, actually, I cannot,” she snapped immediately. “A stranger invites you into his basement and casually asks you to move in with him and I’m supposed to be quiet?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds concerning.”
“Because it IS concerning.”
I groaned softly and leaned back into the chair.
Roxy crouched in front of me, her expression shifting slightly when she finally noticed the conflict on my face.
“Oh no,” she said slowly.
I frowned. “What?”
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“Sienna.”
“I barely know him.”
“That wasn’t my statement.”
I opened my mouth then closed it again.
Because unfortunately, the problem wasn’t whether I liked him.
The problem was that my body apparently did.
Traitorously.
Roxy stared at me for another second before suddenly standing up.
“Nope,” she declared. “Absolutely not. We are not doing that”
“Doing what?”
“We are not sitting here while you spiral into a psychological crisis over Basement Batman.”
Despite myself, I snorted.
Roxy pointed at me dramatically. “There she is.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. Now come on.”
She grabbed my wrist again.
“We’re partying.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You clearly need alcohol, loud music, and poor decision-making immediately.”
“That sounds medically irresponsible.”
“Yet spiritually necessary.”
You know what? At this point, she might’ve been right.
So somehow, against all logic and probably several health recommendations, we stayed.
Hours blurred together after that.
Music, lights, drinks and laughter surrounded me.
At some point, Roxy ended up in one of the couches while arguing with a man in a velvet suit about astrology being government propaganda.
I didn’t ask questions.
Mostly because I was too busy trying not to think about dark watchful eyes, warm hands, and contract offers that should’ve horrified me more than they did.
My fingers brushed over the black card still sitting in my hand.
Marcello.
The name felt dangerous.
I traced the silver lettering absentmindedly, tasting it quietly on my tongue.
“Marcello...”
God.
Even his name sounded like bad decisions.
- Writer
