Ch 4 - Secrets
1001 Words
The bedroom they led her to was larger than any space she could remember ever being in. A four-poster bed draped in silken sheets stood at the center, and the walls were painted in muted cream, with tall windows that reached toward the high ceiling. Everything was elegant, expensive… but it wasn’t hers.
That night, Elena stood at one of those tall windows, her forehead resting lightly against the cold glass. She pushed it open just enough to let the night air rush in, crisp and cool against her skin. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her nerves, trying to still the storm inside her chest.
Her mind raked desperately for answers. Who was she, really? Why couldn’t she remember anything? Why had she woken up with a stranger’s face claiming to be her fiancé?
The silence of the mansion pressed in around her. It was too quiet, unnervingly so, save for the occasional distant sound of footsteps—servants moving about. That was another thing. The house was filled with them, polite and efficient, always present yet strangely invisible.
But beyond them… there was no one. No family, no friends, no warm voices to fill the cavernous halls. Only Dante. Isabella. And the walls of this place that already felt like a gilded cage.
She closed her eyes, whispering her own name under her breath, as though repeating it would anchor her. Elena.
It didn’t feel like enough.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across her room, but the uneasy weight in her chest remained. She caught a glimpse of Dante once—briefly, in the corridor. He passed by in a dark suit, phone in hand, his steps brisk, his expression closed off. He didn’t so much as glance at her as he disappeared down the hall.
But his assistant was another matter. He was there often, walking in and out, checking on things, always lingering on the edge of her awareness.
At last, Elena gathered the courage to stop him.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly as he passed her in the hallway. Her voice trembled despite her attempt to sound steady. “Can you… tell me something? About him?”
The assistant paused, but only briefly. He avoided her eyes. “It’s better if you don’t ask.”
Her brows knit together. “But—”
He cut her off with a shake of his head, stepping aside as if to remove himself from the conversation. His silence said more than his words: he wouldn’t tell her anything.
Later, while she helped Isabella arrange a doll tea set, one of the older servants approached her discreetly, voice low so the child wouldn’t overhear.
“Miss Elena,” the woman murmured, her eyes darting around nervously, “don’t ask questions about our master. Dante Luciano doesn’t like it. For your own good, keep quiet.”
Elena stiffened, her throat going dry. She managed only a small nod in reply, hiding the unease twisting in her stomach.
Don’t ask questions.
But how could she not, when every corner of this place screamed of secrets?
~~~~~~
The long dining table stretched farther than Elena thought necessary for three people. Its polished surface gleamed beneath the golden chandelier, lined with dishes arranged to perfection. She sat midway down, hands clasped in her lap, unsure where exactly she belonged.
Across from her, Isabella hummed cheerfully, already reaching for a piece of bread with her small hands. The child’s joy made the cavernous room feel less lonely, but only barely.
The sound of footsteps broke through the quiet, sharp and deliberate. Dante entered the room.
Elena’s breath caught.
He looked as untouchable as ever, dressed in another dark suit that clung to his broad shoulders, his hair slicked back with precision. His eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—flicked briefly toward her before settling on Isabella, who clapped her hands the moment she saw him.
“Uncle Dante!” Isabella squealed. “Come sit with us!”
Something softened in his expression, so faint Elena wondered if she’d imagined it. He came closer, taking the head seat at the table, every movement controlled, every gesture carrying the weight of authority.
The servants moved in silence around them, pouring wine into his glass, placing food carefully in front of him. One trembled as he refilled a bowl, his hand shaking just enough to spill a drop onto the tablecloth.
Elena’s eyes darted toward Dante instinctively.
His gaze snapped to the servant like a blade unsheathed. The man froze under the weight of it, color draining from his face. Dante said nothing, but the silence was worse than shouting. Cold. Absolute.
The servant bowed quickly, muttered apologies, and all but fled the room.
Elena swallowed hard, her stomach twisting. This was the other side of him—the one no child’s laughter could soften. A man who didn’t need to raise his voice to instill fear.
Yet, moments later, Dante turned toward Isabella, and his tone shifted—still deep, still commanding, but gentler.
“Eat properly,” he told her as she tried to pile too much food onto her tiny plate. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Isabella giggled, obeying, and Elena felt her chest tighten with confusion. The contrast was dizzying—ice one moment, warmth the next.
She picked at her own food, aware of Dante’s presence like a weight pressing against her. When she finally dared to look up, his gaze was already on her.
Sharp. Watching. Measuring.
Elena’s fork trembled slightly in her hand. She forced herself to break the silence, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Is this… how it always is here?”
For a moment, Dante didn’t answer. His lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
“It is,” he said smoothly. “And now… it’s yours too.”
Elena’s chest tightened. She dropped her eyes quickly, her mind screaming with questions she dared not ask aloud.
- Writer
