The Arrival
916 Words
Elena stared out the tinted window of the black car, arms folded tight across her chest as the world blurred past.
Trees. Fields. Nothing. And then—walls. Gates. Barbed wire and stone. Like she was being delivered to a fortress… or a prison.
She hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the Sinclair estate. Her driver—a man she didn’t recognize—hadn’t either. Just stiff nods and stone silence. The car smelled like leather and regret.
She glanced down at her hands. Her nails were still painted from the night before—a soft peach Camilla had insisted on during their last girls’ night. It looked so out of place now. So… wrong. Like some other version of her had existed just days ago. A freer version. A girl with plans. A girl who believed in summers and freedom and maybe even love.
Not this one. Not this pawn in silk.
Her gaze flicked to the dress—still not her style. Her body might’ve worn it, but her soul refused to. She tugged at the sleeves anyway, uncomfortable in more ways than one.
She didn’t know what he looked like. Nikolai Moretti. Her future. Her captor. Her... husband.
God, what if he’s old? Or cruel? Worse—what if he was both?
Her stomach twisted as the car slowed, pulling through wrought-iron gates that looked like they could swallow her whole.
Elena inhaled sharply, sat up straighter.
She would not cry.
She would not tremble.
She would not give him—whoever he was—the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
Because even if she had to marry the devil, she’d do it with fire in her eyes and steel in her spine.
♠ ♠ ♠
Finally, they arrived at the Moretti mansion.
The car rolled to a slow stop in front of looming iron doors, framed by tall marble columns and cold gray stone. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress—elegant, deadly, and utterly unwelcoming.
Elena’s fingers clenched the fabric of her dress as the driver stepped out and opened the door for her.
She hesitated.
One breath. Two.
Then she swung her legs out, heels clicking against the stone driveway as she stood. Her spine straightened instinctively, chin lifted like armor.
The air was colder here. Or maybe it just felt that way.
The doors creaked open before she could knock.
A man stood there—not him, but someone older. Grim-faced, dressed in black, with a permanent scowl etched into his features.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said with a stiff nod. “This way. The Consigliere awaits your presence.”
No welcome. No smile.
Not that she expected one.
She stepped inside, heels echoing against marble floors polished to perfection. The walls were lined with gold-framed oil paintings and shadows. Everything was too quiet. Too calculated.
As if the house itself was watching her.
As if he was.
♠ ♠ ♠
“Goodday Miss Sinclair. I am Giancarlo De Luca. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
Elena was greeted with the presence of Nikolai's Consigliere with an handshake which was supposed to be a warm welcome.
The man extended his hand with practiced grace, his voice smooth—polished like the marble floors beneath her feet. He was in his late sixties, maybe older, dressed in a tailored black suit that screamed both wealth and danger but he looked younger like a man in his prime—his grey hair slicked backwards as though he was only twenty. His dark eyes watched her closely, not with lust, but calculation. Like he was sizing up a chess piece before placing it on the board.
Elena shook his hand, her spine straight despite the cold crawling down it.
“Pleasure,” she said, her tone clipped.
Giancarlo’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “You’ll find that things are done differently in this house. We value... order.”
He gestured toward the hallway. “Please. I believe your journey went well. The Don had some urgent business to attend to but your rooms are ready. You’ll be escorted there.”
She didn’t move.
“What exactly am I expected to do here until then?” she asked defiantly, folding her arms.
Giancarlo’s smile widened, just enough to make her skin prickle.
“Whatever the Don decides, Miss Sinclair.” He handed some documents to her. “In the meantime, sign these.”
“Tell him to get in touch when he arrives. We need to discuss the terms. I'll hold on to these for now”
Giancarlo was almost taken back but his smirk left as quickly as it came. “Sure. I'll pass on the message.”
He smiled politely at her and motioned to his right. Before she could reply, two silent guards stepped forward to flank her.
“Show Miss Sinclair to her room.”
The message was clear.
She was no longer a guest.
She was property being delivered.
Elena turned without another word, heels clicking sharply against the stone as she followed them deeper into the mansion.
Giancarlo watched her go, then pulled a phone from his coat pocket.
“She’s here,” he said into it.
A pause. Then a low chuckle.
“Yes. She’s exactly what you expected.”
“I'll be there after dinner.”
Giancarlo flashed a teasing grin as he ended the call.
Things are about to become more interesting in the Moretti house.
- Writer
