Watching Me
1825 Words
Selene’s POV
“What,” I whispered again, “is this?”
My voice barely made a sound. The photo shook in my hand, a trembling leaf. I looked at Dante, waiting for anything—a word, a breath, some explanation.
Nothing. He just stood there. And that scared me more than the photograph ever could. More than the fact someone had snapped it while I stood, oblivious. It was Dante that shook me because for the first time since I met him, he looked thrown—maybe not weak or rattled, more like I’d glimpsed something he’d always kept locked away. Exposed.
This—this was worse somehow.
My eyes dropped back to the photo. The memory came in a rush. I was eighteen, on the edge of adulthood, laughing with Valentina near that dusty little bookshop by Piazza Navona. We’d skipped one of my father’s endless charity events. Some cranky old man yelled at the pigeons like they’d cheated him, and Valentina and I lost it. I could remember that day so clearly.
What I didn’t remember was anyone sneaking a picture.
Suddenly, my skin felt itchy, my body too small.
“How long have you had this?” My voice was sharper than before.
Dante stepped closer. Instinctively, my fingers clamped down on the photo.
“Don’t.”
He stopped. That surprised me. He wasn’t the type to listen to warnings.
The air in the room changed. Smaller. Tense.
“You were searching through my office,” Dante said, glassy calm.
“Oh, sorry, should I have just ignored the whole secret-stalker-photo thing?”
His jaw moved—just a flicker. But I caught it, and my stomach knotted.
I held the photo up. “You took this?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He stayed silent. That was enough.
Something bitter went cold in my brain. He hadn’t found this. Someone took it for him. On purpose.
It was not an accident, neither was it by chance.
A laugh bubbled up, small and bewildered.
“You’re insane.”
He actually smiled a little. “I've heard that before.”
“How long?” Now my voice snapped. “How long have you known who I am?”
He didn’t blink. “Years.”
The word landed like a punch. Not weeks, not even months—years.
I replayed every moment from that hotel room in my head. The way he looked at me. The way he always seemed too calm, too collected, like nothing ever surprised him—not even waking up beside me.
God. I shivered.
“You knew who I was that night.”
“Yes.”
There was no pause, no softening, no lie. Just that. Yes.
It cut right through me. Suddenly, my brain was a storm of questions. Was any of it accidental? Did he seek me out? Was I chosen? My mouth went dry.
“You planned it.”
“No.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed again, sharp and wild. “That’s your answer for everything.”
He took another step, close enough that even my nerves couldn’t ignore his presence—the heat coming off his body, the scent of whiskey and smoke, all that overwhelming force.
“I didn’t drug you,” he said, quiet and steady.
“I know.” The words slipped from me before I could think, and they surprised us both.
He narrowed his eyes, but I looked away. Because the ugly truth was, I did believe him. I actually believed him.
He reached for the photograph, slow and careful. I stepped back immediately. He stopped again, keeping his space. That restraint felt weirdly intimate, as if touching would’ve been less invasive.
“Why do you have this?” I tried once more.
His face hardened. “Drop it.”
“No.”
“Selene.”
“No.” My arms locked tight against my chest. “You don’t get to drag me into your house, wave marriage contracts around, secretly collect photographs of me, and then act mysterious.”
I expected anger. Maybe even shouting. Instead, his eyes flashed with something like amusement.
“You get loud when you’re angry.”
“And you get creepy when you’re cornered.”
That almost-smile threatened again, dangerous and frustratingly attractive. Unfair, honestly.
I shoved the photo onto the desk. “Explain it.”
He glanced down, then right back up. “I knew your mother.”
That stopped me. Cold.
“My mother?”
“She was kind to someone who didn’t need it.”
I scowled. “What’s that even mean?”
“It means she mattered.”
My frustration flared. “You’re talking in riddles.”
“You’re asking dangerous questions.”
“Dangerous for who?”
He looked at me for a long beat. “You.”
It didn’t sound dramatic. It just sounded true—and that left me even more uneasy.
Suddenly, old memories pushed up: the same black car at the university, at cafés, family events. I’d always figured it was my father’s security detail.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
My voice shook. “Have you been watching me?”
His silence was answer enough, but after a moment, he said, “Yes.”
That word landed hard. Not because it was some twisted romance—it wasn’t. It felt obsessive and wrong. But part of me still wanted to understand. That was what scared me most.
“You can’t just say things like that as if it’s normal!”
“You asked.”
“That doesn’t make it normal!”
Dante suddenly put one hand down on the desk next to me. Close enough to smell his cologne, smoke, him. My heart kicked up, which annoyed me.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out quietly.
I glanced up. Big mistake. His eyes were even darker this close—dangerous.
“As if I have a choice?” My voice was bitter. “Pretty sure my father sold my marriage six months ago.”
A shadow passed over his face. Amusement, gone. The cold teasing, gone. Only anger left—at everything, except me.
“You should’ve been told,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“The contract with Matteo,” he said. “You should’ve known.”
I watched him carefully. “You disapprove?”
“Secrets make you weak.”
Not, it was wrong. Not, you deserved better. Weakness. So, so Dante.
I shook my head hard. “You really are a psychopath.”
“And you’re still talking to me.”
Before I could fire back, someone knocked on the office door. Dante stepped away, instantly distant.
A guard came in, holding a tablet. “There’s a problem.”
Dante took it, his expression darkening as he scrolled. That instantly put me on edge.
“What happened?” He didn’t look up. I moved closer. “What is it?”
He handed me the tablet.
On the screen, article after screaming article:
ROME SOCIALITE SELENE BIANCHI CAUGHT IN MAFIA SCANDAL.
VESCOVI HEIR BETRAYED HOURS AFTER ENGAGEMENT CELEBRATION.
MISTRESS OF THE BLACK DEVIL?
Photos everywhere. Me, leaving the hotel. Me, getting into Dante’s car. My face, blown up on every headline.
And the comments. God, the comments.
Gold-digging w***e. Attention seeker. Mafia slut.
One article even twisted it—said I orchestrated the whole thing just to get close to Dante.
I felt sick. Not surprised, just so bone tired. Women always pay first when powerful men are embarrassed.
“Matteo,” I said quietly.
Dante didn’t deny it. “He owns several media outlets.”
Of course he did. I kept scrolling. It got worse:
IS SELENE BIANCHI PREGNANT WITH DANTE DE LUCA’S CHILD?
I shoved the tablet away. “This is insane.”
Dante looked calm—too calm. That almost made me want to scream.
“You’ll stop reading.”
“That’s your advice?”
“Yes.”
A bitter laugh bubbled up. “Sure. Easy for you. They don’t call you a whore.”
His face changed instantly, all subtle fury and ice.
“No one calls you that again.”
I folded my arms. “You can’t control the internet, Dante.”
“No,” he said, dead calm. “But I can control Matteo.”
Something about the way he said it actually made me shiver. He wasn’t being dramatic, wasn’t raising his voice. He meant it.
The guard lingered by the door. “There’s more,” he said quietly.
Dante looked over. “The Vescovis want a public statement.”
“Denied.”
“They’re threatening legal action over the engagement breach.”
Dante actually looked amused. “Let them.”
The guard hesitated. “There’s also a rumor Signor Vescovi means to challenge the port agreements in the north.”
Something in Dante went ice-cold. You didn’t have to know him well to see it.
The room felt colder.
The guard swallowed. “Should we prepare—”
“Yes.”
Just that. Yes. No hesitation, no questions.
The guard left, quickly.
I looked at Dante, studying the lines on his face.
“That sounds bad.”
“It is.”
“And you’re still calm about it?”
He turned, looking out at the rain-slapped windows. “Panic wastes time.”
I watched him for a second. Then, softer, “Why are you helping me?”
He kept his eyes on Rome below us, the storm pressed against glass. When he spoke, his voice rumbled, lower than before.
“Because Matteo doesn’t deserve you.”
I looked away, breathing shaky. That wasn’t sweet or soft or romantic. Just… dangerous. Honest.
I didn’t know what my face was doing after that.
A little while later, Dante left to deal with his men, talking strategy in that cold way I was starting to recognize. I wandered through the hallways, restless, my thoughts knotted up so tight it hurt.
The estate was quieter at night. Not peaceful—almost like it was watching me. I drifted past guards near the stairs and then stopped, hearing Dante’s voice somewhere ahead.
Sharp, like broken glass, cutting through the hush.
“He leaked the photographs intentionally,” Dante said.
There was another voice, deeper, older. “We expected retaliation.”
“He’s escalating too fast.”
“You think he knows about her?”
A pause. Then Dante answered, and his voice changed—deadly, soft.
“No. But if Matteo touches her again—”
Even softer. A threat that wasn’t just business.
“Kill him.”
Everything in me locked up. Not from fear of the violence, but from how personal it sounded. This had nothing to do with power or strategy anymore. I understood that right then. Dante De Luca wasn’t protecting me because he had to. He wanted to.
- Writer
