UNTAMED OBSESSION

Untamed Obsession The first time Mellu saw him, she knew he was dangerous. Not just in the way he moved—slow, calculated, like a predator sizing up its prey—but in the way he looked at her. Cold. Unreadable. As if he already knew her darkest thoughts, the ones she buried under layers of sarcasm and rebellion. Lorenzo De Luca. Her new stepfather. A billionaire with a name that dripped off tongues like fine wine. He had a reputation—a businessman who dined with politicians and criminals alike. Her mother married him for his money, but Mellu could tell he didn’t marry for love either. The mansion was suffocating. Gold-trimmed walls, chandeliers worth more than anything she’d ever owned, and an eerie silence that made her feel like a doll in a glass case. But what suffocated her the most was him. He never touched her. Never crossed the line. But when he spoke, his voice was low, commanding, sending a pulse of something dark through her veins. "Sit." "Don't speak unless I ask you to." "Look at me when I talk to you, piccola." And God—she liked it. She liked the way he owned a room, the way people feared him. The way he made her feel small—but never invisible. Mellu had always been drawn to danger. Boys her age were predictable, clumsy. They never made her feel the way she wanted to feel. But Lorenzo? He was a man who understood control. A man who could break her and put her back together again. And he was forbidden. But some obsessions were too powerful to fight. --- MAIN CHARACTER MELLU LAZACANO ESTELA AGE: 21 HEIGHT: 5'8 HAIR COLOUR: Brownish black SKIN COLOR: olive skin tone. NATIVE: Mexican. LORENZO DE LUCA AGE: 40 HEIGHT: 6’7 HAIR COLOUR: Black EYE COLOUR: Dark Golden NATIVE: Itallian VERONICA LAZACANO FERNANDA AGE: 46 HEIGHT: 5'9 HAIR COLOUR: BLACK SKIN TONE: OLIVE NATIVE: MEXICAN. ____ Intro Mellu's childhood The first time Mellu realized love was a transaction, she was nine years old. She sat curled up on a torn sofa, knees pressed to her chest, listening to the rhythmic creak of the bed in the next room. Creak. Creak. Creak. The sound of business being done. The air was thick—cheap perfume, sweat, the lingering scent of men who never stayed. Her mother’s voice spilled through the cracked door. High. Sweet. Fake. "Oh, baby… yeah, right there—" A laugh followed. Hollow. Mellu didn’t cry. Not anymore. The door swung open, and the man stepped out. He barely spared her a glance as he adjusted his belt, tossing crumpled bills onto the table before walking out. Her mother, Veronica, emerged seconds later. Lipstick smudged. Hair tousled. Stretching lazily if she had just finished a routine chore. She picked up the money, flipping through the bills with a satisfied hum. Then, without looking at Mellu, she tossed a few notes at her. "Go get something for dinner." She didn’t ask if Mellu had eaten. She never did. Mellu took the money and stepped outside. The air was thick and humid, sticking to her skin like the hands of men who stared too long. The city was alive with neon lights, laughter, and sins hidden in shadows. She walked past street corners where women in short dresses leaned against lampposts, exhaling cigarette smoke and broken dreams. Some men watched her. Some with indifference. Others with something darker. At ten years old, she learned how to disappear in plain sight. At eleven, she knew how to lock the door when her mother drank too much. At twelve, she understood that men could take what they wanted—if they paid enough. By thirteen, she had built walls so high, nothing could touch her. She stopped believing in love. She stopped believing in heroes. Because in her world, love was just another deal waiting to be made. --- IT WAS A LOUSY SATURDAY NOON Mellu slouched on the couch, tossing an old phone up and down, watching her mother paint her face in front of the mirror. Veronica lined her lips, smacked them together, adjusted the tight red dress hugging her body like a second skin. "Getting ready to get yourself f****d?" Mellu said flatly. Her mother froze mid-swipe, eyes flicking to her through the mirror. "Goodness, how did I give birth to such a brat?" Veronica sighed, twisting a golden earring into place. "When I was your age, I had my own house. I made my own money." Mellu let out a dry laugh. "News flash—I'm no w***e. And it’s hard to find a high-paid job in this f****d-up city." Veronica turned, eyes narrowing. "Brat." "I mean, why put so much effort into makeup when you'll still get railed and dumped like a useless doll?" The slap came fast. Sharp. Stinging. Mellu’s head snapped to the side. "I'm doing this for us, young lady," Veronica snapped. "For you. So you don’t end up on the damn streets." She exhaled sharply, smoothing her dress, regaining her composure. "How do I look?" she asked, twirling. Mellu’s voice was devoid of emotion. "Like a whore." Veronica’s lips curled. "One day, I’ll kick you out of this house, you ungrateful brat." She grabbed her bag and stormed out, leaving behind the scent of Chanel and self-delusion. Mellu sighed, pulling out her phone. Her fingers hovered over a number. Her boyfriend. She had been dating him for two weeks, but she felt nothing. HER FIRST KISS The boy arrived fifteen minutes later, all eager hands and hungry eyes. “Wassup,momma” he said as he jumped onto the sofa where she sat. Mellu fakes a smile. They talked—a little. Nothing important. He leaned in, lips brushing against hers. It was soft. Eager. Excited. But to her, it was nothing. No fire. No ache. No heat. He whispered against her skin, "You’re so beautiful, baby. I want you." She let him undress her. She let him take what he wanted. She waited to feel something. He pushed inside her—hard, fast, messy. She felt a little pain at first. Not pleasure. Not desire. He moaned, eyes dark with lust, gripping her hips. "You feel so good, baby." But Mellu just stared at the ceiling. It was over before it even began. Just like that??! She faked a moan. Pretended she liked it. Let him think he had conquered something. When he left, she lay there, legs spread, body numb. And for the first time, she thought: "Maybe something is wrong with me." --- TRYING TO FEEL ALIVE So she tried again. And again. Different boys. Different nights. Still nothing. No heat. No pleasure. No high. Just fake whispers of nothing and lies. So she started searching. Porn. Toys. Late-night cravings she didn’t understand. She chased that feeling. She needed something more. She needed to be owned. She needed to be broken. She needed to be ruined—by the right man. But for now, she settled for her mother’s s*x toys and a laptop screen. __ And now the story begins